


Aptus

by whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amputation, BDSM, Cannibalism, Control, Crossdressing, Dancing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Figging, Forced Orgasm, Fucking Machine, Gangbang, Gaslighting, Hellfire Club, Historical References, Lingerie, M/M, Make Up, Manipulation, Multi, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Denial, Orgasm Torture, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Seduction, Spanking, Spiritualism, Voyeurism, Whipping, binding, spanking machine, underground club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 14:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: The night was still early, now, and then tomorrow would be the same. And the day after. And the day after that. Over and over, the silk and sweat and skin, familiar stone floors, young bodies in a sleepy pile on the large beds during the day, recovering like puppies after a meal. An endless repetition blurring to a mundane future. Will could not waste his youth here. And he had learned from his first mistake, he would not make another like it.A doctor, a dancer, much vice, and little virtue.PLEASE READ THE TAGS AND THE WARNINGS PER CHAPTER. This is a really messed up story and it will only get worse. We are beyond excited for you to read it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/gifts).

> Written for HannibalGoreFest 2019.
> 
> Both [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices) and I are SO. EXCITED. to share this piece with you. It started with a sexy idea and grew to something so much more brutal and horrible in our capable hands. Do check the tags though, I will update them as more horror comes into play, and I'll warn for chapters that are particularly creepy.
> 
> Posting the first three chapters one after the other through HannibalGoreFest, and then weekly til it's done!
> 
> Also PLEASE NOTE there may be language in the fic that could be considered ableist. Please know that it's only in there because this is based in the 19th century when everyone was a bit of a dick and being nice to people wasn't cool.

Music had always touched Will, brought out emotions, entire scenes behind his eyes that no one else shared. When he had learned how to put movement to those notes, those wordless voices that called to him, how to turn and bend and arch his body to narrate to others what only Will could see, he felt like he was flying.

At the ballet school, one of his teachers had called him _ethereal_; as though something supernatural possessed him when he moved, elevated him to a level of beauty few human beings could reach. It was impossible to take one’s eyes off him when Will was dancing, in practice or on stage, in between classes in the hallway, at night when he couldn’t sleep and practiced alone before the mirror.

The other students had called him a _freak_. Where tutors saw dedication bordering on obsession, other boys and girls saw a thin young thing, far too poor and wide-eyed to be as good as he was. They taunted him, claimed he had summoned a ghost during a seance and sold his soul to the devil for his skill.

Jealousies ran hot in youth, pride ran even hotter.

What had been meant as a mean prank turned into something far crueller. Will had fallen on the street, when one of the other boys had pushed him. He’d landed in the filthy puddle, clothes soaked and hair a mess, and he’d managed to sit up. But the muck had camouflaged him against the roadway, and the carriage that struck him, crushing the delicate bones in his left foot, did not even stop at his anguished cry.

The doctors had tried to mend him, setting the bones, plastering it still. But day by day the toes grew darker, the skin slick, the nerves within sparking. Will had pleaded, he had bargained, he had outright demanded, but in the end his fate was severed under a heavy doctor’s saw and the thick haze of opium.

He was no longer a freak, then. He was a cripple. No longer ethereal, but ghostly.

He refused his meals, he refused his bath. He lay awake and kept sky-blue eyes on the flaking ceiling above his tiny cot and waited for the rest of his body to follow its part to the grave. His patience, however, won him another kind of mercy.

A travelling doctor, from somewhere in America Will could hardly pronounce let alone remember, had come through the pauper’s hospital one evening. He was due to leave that week, his days taking notes and following mentors come to an end, but something about Will had paused his quick steps through the wing. He’d considered the boy, pale and lovely like marble come to life, he’d asked after him from the nurse in charge, and Will’s story and circumstances kept the young doctor at the hospital just two days more.

Before he left, he offered Will a gift; a limb carved smooth from a dark wood, the ankle and ball of the foot articulated by metal bolts. It was heavy, and cumbersome, and strange, hung with leather straps to tether it to Will’s leg and up over his knee, but Will adored it.

The doctor left for America with the taste of Will on his lips.

Will discharged himself a few days later, once his body was properly fed, and watered, and washed.

He practiced every day, and anywhere he could. Up and down the cobbled streets, arms out for balance; over the gutters, poised on this toes; through muck and mud and grass and sand; on the reeking banks of the Thames; on stairs, on wooden floors, on rugs. He practiced shoed and bare. He practiced with his eyes open and closed. He practiced until the limb so cruelly taken from him was restored.

The streets were simultaneously kind and cruel to beautiful things. Work was available under shadowed overhangs and in the depths of crooked alleys. Experience was unnecessary, sometimes even a boon. It was hardly a life, but Will was determined to survive, to thrive beyond where his circumstances, and others’ envy, had thrown him.

Within a year, a man who paid him well and hurt him little invited Will to attend a party with him. He had provided Will a space to bathe and comb his hair, had brought him a mask of the thinnest leather to press over his eyes and nose, had offered him a silk robe to clothe himself. He had paid Will a pound, an unspeakable amount, to do anything he said that night. And Will took it without question.

That night had proven pivotal, teaching Will at once that kindness on the streets became cruelty behind closed doors, and offering him an exclusive client base for his particular talents.

The club - a Hellfire club, Will was told - provided the rich and bored with the same twisted alleys and shadowed overhangs that the poorer classes took such advantage of at the far end of Fleet Street. Here, men were anonymous; they arrived clothed, in carriages, with money and desires and a desperate hunger for the obscene. In secret rooms they undressed, took up white robes, filigree masks, cloying opium cigars, and became no one. The club provided wine and liquor, exotic fruits and rich meats, and an array of beautiful bodies to torment with pain and pleasure.

Boys with bodies like Will’s, limbs changed or missing, eyes bright and angry and wide. Boys with bodies unmarred until the club marked them. Boys with nowhere to go.

Crooked corridors veined out into dens of iniquity, rooms filled with an array of objects in leather and metal and glass and wood. Rooms with large beds and soft sheets with strong tethers on each post. Rooms where sounds carried but only to the door. In a small atrium, the room between where the men came named and went nameless, a harp was played by an open fire, and sometimes boys danced to the tune. Some boys drew glances and little else. Others were claimed by hungry hands before one song could end and another begin.

But when Will danced, the entire club stood still, transfixed, hypnotized by him.

With translucent silk against his hips, painted hieroglyphs upon his arms and strong thighs, bracelets of gold and silver and gemstone above his elbows and at his ankles, he danced as though in a trance. Will brought nightly a seance to the club as spiritualists called clients to their table. He danced with eyes bound in red, moved as the music moved him, the only sound beyond the harp and his soft breathing was the quiet click of metal against his wooden foot.

Sometimes Will danced all night, from dusk til dawn, until exhaustion took him and he slept by the fire. Sometimes, Will was asked after, men willing to pay exorbitant amounts to learn the taste of his skin as he moved beneath them. After those evenings, he would not dance for several days, and the men would grow restless. Eventually, his purchase was forbidden, his form allowed to be seen only in the atrium. 

If he wished to seek wine or food, men would accommodate him, but he would not follow them into the crooked corridor. If his body ached, craved the heat of the more secret spaces, his debt to the club grew, but he was permitted to take an hour, or two, for a man of his choosing to use his mouth. They could touch, but they could not mark. Will could take his pleasure so long as he returned and danced after, until the sun seared the sins from the front door and the space grew still with the sighs of sleeping boys.

And he did, once in a while, relishing the power his beauty held over others. He danced blind and turned away from those who spread his lips with tongues and fingers and cocks, but he saw so much when he rested with the others, when he took time to breathe between one dance and another, arms wrapped around his knees, watching anonymous men watch him back.

During certain festivals, dedicated to Venus, to Bacchus, those who often sought refuge in secret rooms came together in the atrium, bodies shifting and moaning and sweating together, sticky with semen and spit and wine. The boys not chosen as sacrifices for the evening relished those nights, able to slip away as soon as the men grew drunk and weary. Will would always stay, pressing his form against the cold stone as he watched with clever eyes and reddened lips the high society of London become the gutter of it.

One day he would leave this place, his debts fulfilled and talent honed, and find the boys who had hurt him. One day, he would dance and eyes would not leave him, and those boys, those jealous, whole boys, would weep at the sight of it.

One day.

But not this evening. Not as Will spun and curled and twisted, his wooden foot set against the back of his knee as he arched back and caught himself against outstretched arms, bridged over the stone floor as the harp’s soft notes echoed into silence. Not then. Because when he stood, instead of a new tune, a hand touched his shoulder, slipping free the crimson silk from his eyes.

“You are wanted,”

Sweat curled Will’s hair into fleece, silk clung to his legs, hiding nothing of his form, and he raised his eyes to the Brother who spoke to him.

“By you, sir?” Will asked, voice rough from not using it for hours, breathy from exertion. When the other shook his head, Will had to work to keep the relief from his features. The man was corpulent, had cruel eyes. He had been one of the first to suggest to the Abbott that Will should offer his mouth, if his body was so precious. 

Will watched as the Brother gestured towards another who stood still and stately at the mouth of the corridor. A mask clung to his face, light hair held at the nape of his neck by a velvet tie. His features were sharp, his posture suggested nothing less than royalty, and his form… his form Will found very pleasing.

This man had caught Will’s eye before, had bought him wine, had had the young man straddle his lap as he fed him grapes and spoke fond whispers in foreign tongues against his throat. He had never used Will’s mouth, or his hands. He had watched, he had devoured and claimed that way only.

Will remembered him well. And so he went, slow steps away from the harp and the fire, away from the eyes that hungered for him and towards those that wanted him.

“_Fais ce que tu voudras_,” Will murmured, chin ducked in supplication, eyes sharp and bright and outlined in kohl. He stopped near enough for the man to touch him, should he wish, but did not reach out himself. His muscles ached, his body trembled. Will stood on his good foot, with wooden toes against the stone, knee bent to take the weight from his prosthetic. The only time Will didn’t hurt was when he danced.

The man regarded him, took his fill of Will’s presented and bared form, as Will cast his eyes over his shoulder, into the corridor beyond that he had not entered with another for several months.

“Will you come with me?” The man’s accent was warm, heady, it dizzied Will every time he heard it. When Will returned his gaze to the other, the man’s eyes looked red beneath his mask.

“Where?” 

“Away.”

Will shook his head, a smile pressing dimples to his cheeks. “I do not go away.”

“You dance beautifully.”

“Thank you,” coy, lovely, voice pitched higher to suggest youth even more illicit than Will’s true age. “Have you watched before?”

“Every night.”

Will blushed, delighting in their game, and tilted his chin up in pride. “And now you seek to steal me?”

“Yes.”

Will’s laugh poured warm like caramel and he brought a hand to his lips, teeth teasing against the side of his thumb as he considered the man before him.

“I would be missed.”

“You will return,” the other promised, tone warm. “Adjusted, exceptional.”

The heat in Will’s cheeks now took a different tint, one of shame and displeasure, and he turned petulantly away. A set jaw, and narrowed eyes and a fist curling softly in the crimson fabric in Will’s hand.

“Adjusted.” He breathed, shifting deliberately to set his weight fully on his wooden foot. “I need no adjustment, I am already whole.”

When a warm hand set to Will’s chin he shivered, but did not move away. He allowed the touch, turned his head when he was guided to, parted his lips for the thumb that sought to rub flush against the bottom one.

“You are remarkable,” the man whispered, and the word drew Will’s eyes up to his once more, seeking a lie there, seeking cruelties and finding none. “All parts of you, everything you are.” When he leaned nearer, Will closed his eyes and let him. 

“I would build you wings,” he breathed, tickling against Will’s ear, “see you soar with them before you cast them aside, outgrown and useless. I would build you up into myth. I would make you more than a man.”

“More than a man,” Will repeated, the words hypnotic, cloying, tempting. He was warmed flush with the man’s voice and his promises. “And then?”

“And then,” a sigh, hands releasing Will where he was held, the man pulling back to stand as he had been. “And then you would tell me what more a creature beyond a man could want, and I would become that, too.”

Will’s smile pulled languid, eyes still closed before he allowed them to open slowly. He felt worshipped. He felt powerful. He considered the man’s cock, semi-hard between his legs from just looking at Will, and considered the pulse of his own growing desire against the debt he owed the club.

“Would that I were free,” he sighed, offering a soft pout. The man merely blinked at him.

“I offer freedom,” he said.

“A debt changing hands remains a debt,” Will pointed out bitterly, shifting his weight to his right foot again. “I cannot pay the club, I cannot pay you. Where would my freedom be?”

“Payment need not be monetary,” the other shrugged. “I am a man of science and reason. Medicine. Invention. You are a boy of extraordinary talent. Collaboration may lead to mutual benefits.”

The corner of Will’s lip caught beneath his teeth. He had always carved his own way through life, clawed up against the filth and muck to bring himself up, pristine. But Will had to admit that the foot he loved so dearly was aging faster than he was, oil no longer helped the delicate joints, parts of the heel had started to splinter.

“I can see how I would benefit,” Will said after a while, allowing his gaze to return to the eyes behind the mask. “How would you?”

The eyes blinked, once more red in the firelight before returning to a deep brown. “Sweet boy,” was all he said.

Will swallowed, the sound thick in his ears, heavy in his throat. The offer was tempting. The man proposing it was far from frightful. But Will had found himself at the club by assuming kindness on the street meant kindness elsewhere, had suffered cruelties for another’s sexual pleasure. The hair on the back of his neck stood stark, warning of a threat, urging Will to consider over time and not be hasty.

But the night was still early, now, and then tomorrow would be the same. And the day after. And the day after that. Over and over, the silk and sweat and skin, familiar stone floors, young bodies in a sleepy pile on the large beds during the day, recovering like puppies after a meal. An endless repetition blurring to a mundane future. Will could not waste his youth here. And he had learned from his first mistake, he would not make another like it.

“And once I have repaid my debts?” Will asked, tilting his cheek against his shoulder.

“Once you have,” the man replied, “then we shall discuss, as men, whether our journey moving forward will be together or alone.”

Will’s pulse hummed, cheeks flushed with it from the dance as much as the possibilities this man was offering. Freedom, true freedom, for a month, perhaps two, or being a pretty kept thing. Surely Will could stifle his pride for that long. In the unfolding scroll of his life, what was a submission or two when compared to his independence?

“I will ask one thing,” Will murmured, stepping near, poised, now, on his prosthetic, perfectly balanced as though the foot were flesh and bone. “Your answer will determine my own. Give me your name.”

Will understood the consequences of his words, the power he held between them now. The club had no names, within, anyone was everyone, and everyone was no one. Names did not exist. Rank did not exist. All power without, did not carry within.

And yet.

If a man were willing to risk such a thing, offer this boy, this truly insignificant boy, his real name…

“Hannibal,” the other said, clear, soft. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” He did not hesitate. He did not flounder. And Will’s breath caught in his throat as he set his feet parallel once more, standing close enough to feel warm breath against his hair. He looked up, made sure the man met his gaze.

“Take me away, Hannibal,” Will told him. “I’ll go with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The man’s play at stoicism was appreciated, albeit amusing. There was no doubt as to why Will was here, what he owed to this arrangement. Perhaps Hannibal had assumed he would be unwilling, broken at the club and in need of strong hands to put him together. Perhaps the doctor had wanted that, a little puzzle box of a boy. But Will was stronger than that, he was galvanized against it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this one, loves. Enjoy the smut~

Doctor Lecter’s home stood narrow but deep, three storeys tall with two more beneath street level that housed a wine cellar, the kitchen, and a workshop. Within, the home was decadent, richly furnished and well-appointed, staffed with two maids, a butler, and a cook who all went home come evening.

Will had never been in a place so beautiful. It reminded him, somehow, of the ballet school; it was light, the air was cool and free of smoke, everything was clean. And there were mirrors, huge, framed in gold and burnished bronze, surrounded by painted landscapes and portraits of Lecters long dead. They felt almost magical, shifting reflections when the paintings around them remained still, as though there was a world just beyond for Will to see if he just took his time to.

Will first saw the house in the twilight of early morning, his debt having been renegotiated to the man who now held open the door for Will to enter his new home. The terms of his release had been curious; his debt to the club would be cleared, paid in full by Hannibal, but Will would come to dance there, for annual meetings and festivals and certain rituals. Pride had flickered hot in Will’s chest at the thought that he was irreplaceable.

That first morning, Will had been guided into an enormous guest bedroom that he would call his own. A four-poster bed, a wardrobe, a heavy wooden desk pushed up against windows that overlooked the busy street below, but let in none of the noise. He was on the second floor, shared with another spare bedroom, the library, and a bathroom of Will’s own. The first floor hosted the dining and living rooms, a music room and a parlour, as well as they entryway. A small reading room was at the back of the house and caught the late afternoon light. It opened into a small garden. The third floor was Doctor Lecter’s personal rooms and his private library, housed in the study.

That first day, Will had taken a luxurious bath, sinking beneath hot clean water until his skin wrinkled with it and his muscles trembled in pleasure, and then he had slept. Hannibal did not disturb him. When he woke, lax and lazy and well-rested, it was almost dinnertime. The doctor had promised Will new clothes and shoes, as well as a new prosthetic, but until those were acquired, Will settled on wrapping a robe of dark red silk over his nightshirt before heading downstairs.

The staff had gone, it seemed, because Will met no one until he wandered into the dining room and came upon the doctor himself setting the table.

At the club, Will had only ever seen Hannibal in the white robes provided, or entirely nude during festivals and rituals. Here, the man was impeccably put together in striped trousers, a blindingly white shirt and a patterned vest on top. Will felt his body immediately respond to him, appreciating the picture of the doctor setting the table for two, rather than merely waiting, having had the staff set it earlier.

“Doctor Lecter,”

“Hannibal, please.”

Will felt his cheeks warm with the tone, stepping closer. His feet sunk into the rug and he curled his toes in it.

“Hannibal.”

“I trust you slept well?”

“Very,” Will crossed his arms over his middle and stopped when he was nearly at the table. “Thank you. I’m sorry I slept so long, I -”

“You needed to recover. Your body has been under tremendous stress for a long time, Will. Take the time you need to get comfortable. Rest. Eat. Relax.”

Will’s blush deepened. He hadn’t ever relaxed. Not as a child, when finding food was a struggle. Not at the ballet school, where one mistake could see him fall to the bottom of the class. Not on the streets, where vigilance stood between survival and not. Not at the club… rarely at the club. And now, when this man owned him, had promised him shelter and clothing and comfort in return for the pleasure of Will’s body, surely he couldn’t relax now either.

“Will you eat?” Hannibal asked, and Will nodded mutely, still tangled in his thoughts. He took the seat he was guided to, curled his good foot beneath him as he settled.

They talked more as they ate dinner - a thick and filling stew with bread so fresh the crust shattered in Will’s hands - and Will felt himself relax. The doctor was interesting, clearly content to speak to Will about his work and his patients, seeing no need to return endlessly to their one connection through Hellfire. It was a relief, if Will were honest. Boredom stifled him. Had the man proven to be pleasant to look at but insufferable to behold, their arrangement would not have been smooth. 

He asked after Will, too, interested to learn of his time at the school, horrified at the circumstances that had led to Will’s injury. Hannibal was particularly curious about the American doctor who had gifted Will his foot, spoke about his own research into the matter of amputation and the slow return to ambulation. He assured Will that they would speak more in depth about the prosthetic when Will was more settled in.

He did not treat Will like a little crippled boy. He did not treat him like a freak. Hannibal spoke to him as an equal, an adult with his own decisions to make and a mind more than capable of doing so. By the end of dinner, and three glasses of wine, Will’s entire body vibrated with pleasure. He was rested and fed, clean and relaxed, and before him sat a man not only generous and welcoming, clever and advanced, but utterly, charmingly handsome.

Will graciously accepted an invitation for a nightcap. He sipped his brandy slowly and let it warm his bones, watching Hannibal move so comfortably in his space, entirely in his element. He was a man of high class and high tastes, but with an attitude of one who had not been born into this, but rather of one who had earned it.

Will wanted him. Perhaps for selfish reasons, perhaps to finally enjoy a night of carnal pleasure without a debt hanging over his head, perhaps because he felt it a debt owed already. By the time Hannibal finished his own drink, heavy crystal setting to wood, Will stepped nearer to him and spread a hand against his chest.

“Will, you should rest.”

“I am rested,” Will murmured, turning his head against Hannibal’s collarbone in a semblance of innocence. “I am fed. I am contented.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I want to thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

Will laughed, pulling back to catch Hannibal’s eye. The man’s play at stoicism was appreciated, albeit amusing. There was no doubt as to why Will was here, what he owed to this arrangement. Perhaps Hannibal had assumed he would be unwilling, broken at the club and in need of strong hands to put him together. Perhaps the doctor had wanted that, a little puzzle box of a boy. But Will was stronger than that, he was galvanized against it.

He pushed up on his toes and pressed his lips to Hannibal’s moaning softly when they parted for him. The kiss was gentle, exploratory, and Will smiled when Hannibal’s hands finally slipped into his hair to pull him nearer and deepen the kiss.

And there he was, the man from the club, all concealed power and barely controlled strength. There were the eyes, flicking red to brown to red again, the lips that pulled back in a predator’s grin. There was the body that Will had coyly rubbed against as he had perched in the man’s lap; back to chest, chest to chest, legs elegantly over Hannibal’s own as they shared a bench. He could feel the man’s cock hard in his pants and ached for it.

When Hannibal let him breathe, Will dropped a hand down to stroke him, delighting in the shiver his forwardness drew.

“Take me to bed,” Will told him, arching into the hand that tugged his hair.

“To bed,” Hannibal agreed, curling his fist in Will’s hair for just a moment more before releasing him and taking his hand instead to lead them both upstairs.

Hannibal’s rooms were darker than Will’s own, the curtains already drawn. He must have been two floors above the living room, as there was a fireplace here, too, attached to the large chimney. Embers glowed within and the space was warm when they entered it. Will’s hands reached for Hannibal’s vest, working free the delicate pearl buttons to divest him of it. He didn’t want Hannibal bare, here, he wanted him undone. He wanted his clothes dishevelled, his hair a mess, he wanted Hannibal as desperate for Will as Will was for him.

“I’m not fragile,” Will told him, slipping the robe off one shoulder before Hannibal fisted the fabric and tugged it from him entirely.

“But you are precious,” Hannibal countered, catching Will’s lips in a heated kiss when the other moved to argue. Strong hands curled under Will’s thighs and pulled him from the floor, the boy wrapping his legs around Hannibal as the doctor took the steps necessary to press him to the wall and rut up against him.

Will’s hands clawed uselessly against the linen shirt, slipped down to work the buttons on Hannibal’s pants as the doctor ducked his head to suck a kiss beneath Will’s jaw. As Will’s fingers moved to undo the suspenders next, Hannibal’s sought up between Will’s legs, finding him bare and wet already with pre-ejaculate.

“Naughty boy,” he groaned, sending shivers so strong through Will he thought he might shake apart. Hannibal spread his thighs wider, stepped closer to press the thick length of his clothed cock against Will’s as the boy desperately worked to bare him. When he did, both men moaned at the sensation, muscles tensing and relaxing as one’s heat met the other’s.

Then the wall was gone from Will’s back, and when he felt himself unbalance, the softness of warm sheets met him instead. Hannibal was heavy atop him, as hungry for Will now as the boy was for him, uncaring for clothes or propriety or anything at all except hearing Will’s voice rise for him on plaintive moans.

Will had had his share of fucking in the streets, bent over with his hands on the wall, or on his knees with a cock between his lips as his hands worked frantically between his own legs to get himself off. At the club, his first night, he had tasted the lash against his skin, the paddle against his thighs. He had been spread wide and tied down and fucked until he cried from the sensation.

He squirmed beneath Hannibal just to feel him press Will down harder, he wriggled enough to laugh when the doctor caught his leg, kissed against the side of his knee. Will lay sprawled on his belly, rocking into the bed to stimulate himself until he felt the whisper of his nightshirt tickle his bottom as it was lifted away.

“Wanton, beautiful thing,” Hannibal told him, the words sending heat through every nerve in Will’s body. Before he could answer, before he could do anything at all, a heavy palm landed sharp against his bottom and Will yelped, hips stuttering upwards in his desperation for another. The doctor clicked his tongue.

“And naughtier still.”

Another spank for that, just as sharp, before hot lips worshipped the skin of Will’s ass instead, hands spreading him wide for Hannibal to lick hungrily against his trembling entrance.

This, Will had not experienced before.

Half-dressed on the bed, the picture of debauchery, Will moaned for the doctor to _not stop, never stop, please_ \- as Hannibal devoured his ass. Will had never felt so turned on in his life. His entire body sang for release and he slipped a hand between his legs to work himself closer to it. It didn’t take long, and with a pointed tongue deep in him, Will came slick and hot against his hand.

“God, oh God,”

He felt more than heard the rumble of pleasure behind him, shivered when Hannibal pulled away and lifted Will’s hips higher to kiss against his balls, lick clean the come that had dripped into the public hair at Will’s groin.

It was filthy.

It was perfect.

When the doctor sat back, shoving his suspenders half-undone off his shoulders and his pants down, Will turned to lie on his back, thighs spread invitingly, knees red. The picture of stolen innocence. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking clean the tip of his finger as he watched Hannibal stroke himself. Will teased another fingertip between his lips, another, and then the man was on him, catching rough hands behind Will’s knees to bend and spread him, coaxing Will with rough words to hold himself open as Hannibal lined up against him and started to push in.

The breach was painful, and Will whimpered, turning his head away for just a moment. Hannibal didn’t relent, taking Will’s earlier permission into account, being careful but not gentle with him as he inched into the heat of the boy one shallow thrust at a time until he was buried balls deep in him, Will whimpering and squirming at the pressure.

“Remarkable thing,” Hannibal breathed, kissing softly against the blush at Will’s cheek. He slipped a hand into Will’s hair and turned him to kiss him on the mouth, to swallow the sounds Will made as Hannibal pulled back and roughly shoved back into him.

It was hardly lovemaking, it was a claiming, and Will relished every second of it. He ached and would ache more, he knew, come morning, and he didn’t care. He held his legs wide, arched his back, and took everything Hannibal gave him. Kisses bruised his throat, his collarbone. His shirt was pulled aside to reveal a pink nipple that Hannibal immediately latched to to tease with sharp teeth and deliberate sucks. 

Were Will able, that alone would stir him to hardness again.

The doctor took every part of Will, bit by bit, with mouth and hands and cock. He undid the boy until Will was sobbing his need against him, begging for more, for harder, for anything the doctor wanted.

When Hannibal came, Will shivered. The heat within him was scalding. He felt claimed. Owned. _Precious._

As the man pulled out, he brought a thumb down to stroke against Will’s trembling hole, pressing in the semen that had started to slowly leak out.

“Stay like that for me,” Hannibal told him, easing Will’s legs to the bed, turning him to his side and curling up behind him. “Just like that. Ready and wet for me for next time.”

The words twisted in Will’s belly, arousal spiking hot through his exhausted mind at the thought of waking later only to be mounted again, already dripping for the man, filled and filthied by him.

Yes, Will thought, this arrangement would work out extraordinarily well.

He dropped his hand to work free the garter that held his prosthetic on, gently pulling the wood free to set away for the night. He bit his lip when Hannibal’s hand sought his stump to stroke against it, to feel the peaks and valleys of puckered and calloused skin there, so different to the rest of Will’s unmarred form.

He worshipped that part of Will as he had every other, hand drawing up Will’s calf and to his thigh, before settling against his stomach, wide and heavy and protective beneath Will’s nightshirt.

They slept.

They slept until the witching hour when Will’s arousal woke him and his demanding bottom rubbing against Hannibal’s cock earned him a slow and deep fucking. After that, spent and sated once more, they slept on til morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Naughty thing,” he breathed, and Will turned his face into the pillow to hide his grin. He had quickly learned why the Hellfire Club had been such a common haunt for Hannibal; the pleasures offered there just barely scratched the surface of the doctor’s desires. He bit his lip and forced himself still as Hannibal’s hand slipped beneath the bloomers, down between Will’s legs to cup his balls. “You know exactly how tempting you are.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much lovely debauched sex for our lovely debauched boy. No warnings for this one, but an inkling into Hannibal's other proclivities in among the sexiness, keep a sharp eye.
> 
> Also, [this is what Will is "wearing"](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d1/67/ff/d167ffb2eb7ddee7ec7c2653b0edcdb9.jpg). Historical accuracy be damned, we're here for smut. (They did have bloomers as underwear at the time, but they were longer - to the knee or the ankle - and had a butt flap and a front flap for easy access ;))

Will quickly grew used to a life of luxury.

For the first time in his life, he was allowed space to think, as well as move. He would wake late in the morning, lazy with sleep, and doze until the desire to get up overwhelmed him. Then he would wash his face and do his morning stretches. 

He had shifted the desk away from the window in order to use the sill as a makeshift barre, and returned to the most basic exercises, allowing himself to grow comfortable here at his own pace. In nothing at all, Will would spend an hour at least stretching his muscles lax, starting with his good leg, practicing his balance on his prosthetic. From toes to ankles to knees and thighs. He practiced holding handstands and arching back into bridges. He practiced until his arms trembled and only then would he allow himself to put on a robe and take an afternoon meal.

Most days, he ate alone. The doctor rarely received clients at his home, and Will had no desire to join him at his office, even if he had been asked. He and the staff shared little conversation, each polite to the other, cool enough that should either lose their place in this home they would not be missed.

In the afternoons, sufficiently exercised and left to his own devices, Will perused the library. He’d little time before to be a voracious reader, but he had always enjoyed being able to sink deep into stories so unlike the world he lived in. Will read ancient tragedies and modern adventures, took up Hannibal’s books of anatomy to flip through the images - gruesome though they were. 

In Will’s first few days at the house, he and the doctor spent many hours in bed together. Long enough for Will to weep for how sensitive his skin was, how sore his muscles. He relished in every praise, every worship against his skin. He grew shameless in the mess Hannibal seemed to prefer be left on him until he was permitted to bathe. By the time the doctor returned to his regular work, Will had been thoroughly conditioned to ache for him.

After that, he would greet the doctor at the door upon his arrival, clad in the beautiful clothes Hannibal had provided for him, careful to always show his appreciation for his generosity even when Will felt particularly coy that day. They would eat dinner, sometimes prepared for them, other times made by Hannibal himself as Will cradled a glass of wine and watched him work. And then, shy no longer, they would go to bed.

This was, without a doubt, Will’s most satisfying physical relationship. The doctor was an extraordinary lover, demanding and giving at once. He would push Will with his pleasure, introduce pain, whisper praises against Will’s skin as he trembled, breathless, beneath him. For the first time in his life, Will felt as though he was being enjoyed properly; for his body, his mind, his wit. He felt wanted. He felt royal. When he did not share the bed with Hannibal overnight - when he had early appointments to get to the next day - Will spent it thinking of him, his hand between wantonly spread thighs, head turned to bite against the pillows.

One of the things that Will found most pleasing about the doctor was that he truly seemed to find Will’s disability beautiful. He had spent hours worshipping Will’s stump with kisses and soft fingers. Had found cream for Will to use in the evenings to help soften the skin to its natural texture to more easily avoid chafing and irritation. They had shared late evenings together in Hannibal’s personal study, Will’s wooden foot on the table before them as they discussed the adjustments his new one would need, how better to evolve the design to fit Will’s lifestyle and hobbies.

While Will had long ago accepted the wood as part of himself, this was the first time he felt truly beautiful with it.

It had been a month, by Will’s calculation, since his debt had been transferred. A month of rich foods and good wine, a comfortable bed and time to rest in it, space to move and breathe in, a warm body to fuck into him and bring him to whimpering pleasure.

So that day Will did not dress up for Hannibal. He donned only his short bloomers and nothing else, moving downstairs after the staff went home to drape himself languidly over the chaise in the entryway. He had a book with him, one of the smaller books of poetry, and twisted to lie on his belly, hips propped up on a silk pillow, as he heard the sounds of Hannibal’s carriage pull up outside.

Will waited for the door to open and huffed a dramatic sigh when Hannibal entered the house, turning his head against a folded arm as though the doctor had caught him napping. He felt the thrill of it immediately, the indecency of being so unclothed in a house of such high class; a naughty boy doing naughty things for boredom. He listened as Hannibal closed the door quietly behind himself, listened as his breathing eased to the calm pace it always held when they shared dinners and afternoons together. Will arched up with a quiet sound, a lackadaisical stretch meant to be nothing short of obscene, with how short the frilled fabric was against his thighs.

And he could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him like a physical caress, taking in his strong calves and curved thighs, the dip in the muscle just before the bloomers covered his bottom, leaving very little to the imagination.

Will delighted in being so wanton; he’d not long had the opportunity to fully indulge his sexual appetites.

Will made a soft sound of surprise when Hannibal’s wide hand settled against his left leg, just behind the knee, and turned to look at him through messy curls.

“Did I sleep so late?” he murmured, affecting a believable little yawn before arching up into a stretch again, coaxing Hannibal’s hand further up his thigh. “I wanted to greet you at the door but I just… exhausted myself.”

A hum, as pleased as it was predatory, sent shivers over Will’s skin, and he stayed still as Hannibal stepped nearer, drew his fingertips tickling over Will’s skin to the edge of the cotton that frothed over his ass.

“Naughty thing,” he breathed, and Will turned his face into the pillow to hide his grin. He had quickly learned why the Hellfire Club had been such a common haunt for Hannibal; the pleasures offered there just barely scratched the surface of the doctor’s desires. He bit his lip and forced himself still as Hannibal’s hand slipped beneath the bloomers, down between Will’s legs to cup his balls. “You know exactly how tempting you are.”

“I _am_,” Will admitted softly, nuzzling the cushion. “And I do. Which is why I didn’t put on a stitch of clothing today, except for this. Waiting for you.”

Will was released for just a moment before Hannibal grasped his thigh hard and yanked Will back down the chaise, bending his knees and pushing up his hips. The spanking was swift, sharp, deliberately hitting just where the red would show beneath the bloomers, not lower. Will whimpered through it, a hand down between his legs to press against his cock as it grew harder with every strike.

He loved this. He loved that Hannibal loved this.

Hannibal spanked him until Will was grasping at the cushions, cock leaking between his legs, and only then did he lean down to kiss the point where Will’s cheeks split, breathing deep the arousal and adrenaline and pleasure that radiated off his boy. He could get drunk off him.

“Upstairs with you,” Hannibal told him, one final slap against Will’s ass for good measure before he stepped back and watched Will find his feet. When Will stood he was blushing furiously, eyes bright from pain and the desperate need to come. He didn’t kiss the doctor, not then, instead he wrinkled his nose in a grin, bent to pick up the poetry book he hadn’t even opened, and turned to make his way to Hannibal’s rooms.

Unlike in Will’s room, the bedclothes in Hannibal’s chambers were dark, almost black. It gave the entire room a sense of richness and mystery that Will absolutely adored. He dropped the book to the chest at the foot of the bed when he reached it, and bent over to work free the garters holding up his prosthetic. He didn’t stand up again until he heard Hannibal behind him, and even then he took his time. Carefully balanced, absolutely elegant. He set the foot next to the book before climbing into Hannibal’s bed like he belonged there, sprawling in the sheets and spreading his legs for Hannibal to see how hard he was beneath the thin cotton.

“Incorrigible,” Hannibal told him fondly, bringing a hand to his throat to work free the cravat he had knotted there. “Shamelessly wanton thing. What am I to do with you?”

“I think you have many plans for me,” Will quipped, dropping one knee to the bed to open himself further, watching as Hannibal’s eyes followed every motion.

“Many,” Hannibal echoed, before meeting Will’s eyes again. He took his time undressing, allowing Will to relish in the slow reveal of skin, the slow reveal of the predator beneath the fabric of a well-respected man. By the time Hannibal set his knee to the bed, Will was squirming against it, a hand between his legs again but not rubbing, instead grasping the leg of his bloomers as though to pull the tickling fabric from his sensitive cock.

“You are beautiful, Will,” Hannibal told him, bending forward to set his hands on either side of Will’s head, just watching him. His expression eased into softness, watching the way the boy grinned up at him, and when he leaned nearer to kiss Will properly the young thing wrapped linen limbs over his neck and drew him closer still.

Hannibal ignored the pressing need between Will’s legs in favor of tasting his collarbones, the sensitive spots just beneath his nipples, nosing deliberately at the peaked nubs while his tongue licked lower down. He grasped the sheets at Will’s side and bent them against his pale form, silk covering Will from his knee to where his stump ended, and sat back.

“Absolutely breathtaking,” he whispered, pupils blown in pleasure, cock stiff against his stomach.

Will lay prone, let Hannibal look. He had noticed the man had made a habit of this, covering just parts of Will and leaning back to admire him that way. It was strange, but the lust that radiated from Hannibal was unmistakable. Whatever he saw he adored, and Will loved to be adored. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and slowly reached up over his head to slip his wrist under the dark pillow there, hiding that part of himself too.

Hannibal’s breathing stuttered at the sight. He drew his shoulders back, sat higher to regard Will from a better vantage point, and dropped a hand down to lazily stroke himself as he did. 

Will shivered at the attention, closed his eyes with a soft moan and reached farther, effectively removing his arm up to the elbow beneath the cool silk when he lay still again.

Hannibal cursed, a rough and pleased sound, and bent to bite a harsh kiss against the inside of Will’s thigh, on the leg not yet covered by the sheets. Will moved to dape his other leg over his shoulders and found himself immediately pinned, Hannibal’s hand deliberate in pressing him down as his mouth continued to explore Will’s pink skin. He laughed, surprised, and didn’t move again, contented to be taken apart breath by breath as Hannibal worked his way to the frill of fabric barely maintaining Will’s modesty. His cock tented the bloomers, near-transparent where it was wet. He looked the picture of debauchery. He dropped his free hand to Hannibal’s hair and stroked it from his face, narrowing his eyes in pleasure when the doctor looked up.

“I want you to fuck me,” Will told him, in no uncertain terms. “Hard enough that I forget my own name. And then I want you to do it again.”

“Demanding thing,” Hannibal praised him, and Will had just enough time to grin before his hips were grasped and he was flipped onto his stomach like a ragdoll, Hannibal moving to immediately press down against him when he lay prone. “Perhaps you want me to tie you down as well? So you may never leave my bed, always ready and aching for me.”

Will groaned the affirmative into the pillow, drawing both hands under it to hide them as he rubbed his cock against the bed, his ass up against Hannibal. Another curse, this one softer, and Hannibal slipped Will’s underwear just low enough to expose his opening before leaning in to lick into him.

The sex was deliciously exhausting; Will’s entire body tense with pleasure as Hannibal made him come in his pants, whispering that Will was a terrible, truly naughty thing, before punishing him with another series of spanks against his bare bottom that very nearly brought Will back to hardness again. When Hannibal finally entered him, he fucked Will so deep the other was sobbing for it, Hannibal’s name aching from Will’s lips until he felt Hannibal fill him up, shuddering his release.

The cotton was delicately slipped back over his ass, and Will was reminded to stay just as he was until Hannibal wanted him again. Will fell asleep absolutely sated and incredibly proud of himself.

He woke to hands in his hair, gentling the strands away behind his ears. With a soft sound Will turned his head and opened his eyes, smiling when Hannibal smiled down at him.

“I’ve finalized the design for your foot, Will,” he told him, watching as Will came to full wakefulness at the news. “Just a few days more for it to be built and we will try it on you.”

Will swallowed, drew his lip into his mouth and smiled wider. “Thank you,” he told him, unable to contain the absolute glee he felt. Freedom. So soon, so easily earned. Perhaps he’d even stay, after, indulging in whatever Hannibal wanted to give him for as long as he wanted to give it.

“You are very welcome,” Hannibal replied, stroking Will’s hair again. “There will be dinner, later,” he added.

“Not now?”

“No,” Hannibal slipped down the bed a little more, until he and Will were face to face. “No, not now. I believe you asked something of me earlier.”

Will’s cheeks bloomed with heat. He nodded.

“Then until I am finished, you will stay right where you are, just as you are, my Ganymede. Let me worship you.”

Will’s laugh was a rumble in his chest and he wriggled pleasurably against the sheets. He loved to be adored. He lived for being worshipped. How could he possibly say no to that?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In truth, Hannibal was growing maudlin. He sought companionship - a boy with whom to share pleasure and pain, scientific innovation and philosophical discussions over port. He sought an eromenos, but it seemed history had scattered such things like dust long ago, leaving Hannibal bereft._
> 
> _And then there was the boy with the wooden foot._
> 
> And so we meet Doctor Lecter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic surgery, mentions of cannibalism, child abuse, abduction, and non consensual drug use. Enjoy!

Doctor Hannibal Lecter was, first and foremost, a man of poise and patience. He carried himself with the confidence most of his clients were born with, and that he had fought to acquire for himself. He had grown in renown since his graduation, making it a habit to work not only with the richest of London, but its poorest also. 

Both a surgeon and an alienist, he was compassionate and methodical, kept an office in the center of London when he wasn’t making house calls or volunteering his time at St Mary Bethlehem. His compatriots commended his altruism, his choice to offer his scarce - and expensive - time to those who couldn’t afford even a single button on his suit coat. None followed in his footsteps, of course, instead using his name and their alleged close friendship with him to raise their own reputations in likeminded social circles.

By day, the man was a confirmed bachelor married to his work.

By night, Hannibal Lecter shed his suit of high society and reacquainted himself with the city’s underground.

He had connections along the spectrum of society and sanity, after all. Oftentimes the patients he saw at St Mary’s gifted him gems of information for where to seek out entertainment and fulfilment of Hannibal’s particular proclivities. It was how he had found the Hellfire Club.

For a time, the place was merely a reward for himself, pleasures indulged only when the life he had to lead in front of prying eyes grew exhausting. Here, he could press his hungry mouth between the trembling thighs of beautiful boys and taste, he could bend them over and bury himself deep, taking his time to draw out his pleasure as the thing beneath him whimpered and begged him for more, he could watch when others did the same, dragging pretty things to the center of the atrium and deflowering them for public entertainment. 

Here, he could whip against pale skin and watch bruises bloom beneath his hand, his belt, his riding crop; he could hit until bruises seeped blood and he could keep going.

Here, he could indulge his altruism by buying the debts of lovely little things and taking them away from this den of iniquity. He kept many boys sated in his home, for many months. Feeding them and clothing them, drawing reverent lips over their thin limbs and pressing worship to their proud smiles.

Hannibal did not believe in waste.

Once a boy’s appeal grew stale, he found other uses for them. The medical field was always in demand of articulated skeletons, preserved limbs, organs others needed transplanted when their life of excess caught up with them. Many of the boys he encountered at Hellfire were not yet worse for wear; they were young and healthy, if a little underfed. Many had their own teeth, beautiful eyes, taut bellies and eager mouths. Healthy livers not drowned in liquor, healthy lungs not burned with soot.

Hannibal’s office boasted some of the rarest and most beautifully preserved specimens of the human form, some filled in with wax in lieu of bodily fluids, others in clear jars. He had collections of finger bones, a framed map of the human hand rendered in blood vessels alone, books upon books of sketches he had made of dissections and amputations, many more than any student or practicing doctor should, with the laws in place in regards to human cadaver use.

His dinners, when he hosted them at his home, were always lavish and exorbitant. Dishes with the most succulent meat, exotic-sounding names and unusual combinations of spices. He presented the life of a prince regent trapped in a lowly doctor’s form, and he was revered for it.

It was rare Hannibal took more than one boy a year from Hellfire, it would appear too suspicious if he made a habit of rescuing wastrels and making them disappear. Street kids were just as plentiful and often good for a single night of indulgence. No effort to sustain them or bribe them, no energy expended in removing them from existence beyond their insignificant weight in Hannibal’s arms as he carried them to the cab.

He had yet to find a boy, from the club or the streets around it, who had kept Hannibal’s interest beyond the prurient. Certainly, the man was a hedonist and would indulge himself in the ephemeral beauty of youth until it wilted, but beyond their bodies, the boys often had nothing else to offer him. Stuttered conversations and uneducated opinions, pride that had no place in the chests of boys worth little more than a few coins a night.

In truth, Hannibal was growing maudlin. He sought companionship - a boy with whom to share pleasure and pain, scientific innovation and philosophical discussions over port. He sought an eromenos, but it seemed history had scattered such things like dust long ago, leaving Hannibal bereft.

And then there was the boy with the wooden foot.

At first Hannibal noticed him simply for his beauty, androgynous and cherubic; he moved to the music as though the harp plucked his sinews as it played. It was only when the dance ended, when the boy gently caught his balance against the floor as he stood, that Hannibal noticed his prosthetic at all.

He had summoned the boy to him between his dances, allowing him to perch on his lap as Hannibal fed him grapes from his fingers and welcomed him to sip his wine. He was as a yearling, proud and impulsive, contented to be fed and pampered and watched, quick to slip away before Hannibal could purchase his company for darker pleasures.

He came every evening after that to watch the boy dance, noting quickly that it was hardly the quality of the prosthetic that gave him such grace; rather the boy had it himself. He had meticulously trained himself to move as though his body was entire, not hindered by wood and leather garters.

And he was extraordinary.

Hannibal was certainly not his only admirer; many men fed him and touched him, whispered to him and drew hands over the scandalous silk that covered nothing at all as it clung to his hips. Hannibal had seen the boy leave with some of them, to rooms farther in the club, and return not long after, flushed and contented.

He allowed the envy to grow within him, to take root and bloom. With every foreign body that entered the boy, Hannibal felt a fruit grow ripe on his jealousy. Soon, the branches hung heavy, and only then did Hannibal approach the Abbott to request the purchase of the boy’s - Will’s - debt.

He had cost more than the others, and rightfully so. Hannibal had found himself acquiescing to stipulations he would never have considered with other boys, simply to secure Will for his own. And then he had brought him home, and found the boy even more beautiful when allowed to rest and relax.

He fed him, wined him, kissed the teasing ache from Will’s lips when he had pressed against him just the second night there and demanded sex.

And Hannibal had obliged. Oh, not only that, he had _indulged._

Will’s body was the stuff of myth, inspiration of the sculptors of old who had so revered the young male form in all its grace. The sounds he made, breathy and needy, plaintive and loud. The way he enjoyed their fucking, arching into everything Hannibal gave him, demanding more. The way he enjoyed the harsher pleasures Hannibal offered him, turning red cheeks to the hand that would slap them again, spreading his legs for the palm that would spank him harder; always eager for more, always eager to sate himself as well as Hannibal.

And he was clever. Perhaps he had no formal education but the boy was not stupid. He could read, and took advantage of Hannibal’s library. He understood his body as few people did, with dance being his entire life. He learned what he liked and what he did not, and effortlessly bargained one against the other. He let Hannibal play his games, cover his limbs, sketch his sleeping form, without complaint.

He was perfect.

Within a month, he was exuding the most delicious petulance in his boredom. Hannibal took great pleasure in how quickly the thin fabric of Will’s bloomers had grown wet, had tormented the boy in every possible way until the useless garment tore in his hands.

He would make him more than a man, more even than a demigod. He would have Will become who he was meant to be, guide him to his destiny and cultivate that youthful flame that seemed to never go out behind Will’s sky-blue eyes.

A week after that, he watched Will enjoy his supper, his right foot curled beneath his thigh as he sat at the table. They spoke of travel, and places far away from London - Will asking questions, Hannibal happily answering them. They spoke of Will’s ambition, to go one day to Paris and dance in the theatres there. They drank - Hannibal his usual red, Will challenging his taste buds with one of the doctor’s own creations.

By dessert, the boy was lethargic, pouting his bottom lip in apology when Hannibal asked if they should retire for the night.

“I can barely keep my eyes open,” Will mumbled, drawing his wrist against his temple with a frown. A smile replaced it quickly as he glanced to Hannibal at the table. “But please, do not deny yourself on my account. Just tell me, after, how it felt to fuck my unresponsive form, still as a doll in your bed.”

In truth, Hannibal was tempted.

By this boy he could be tempted right into hell.

He watched as Will excused himself, closed his eyes to follow the boy’s progress by sound alone up the stairs and to his bedroom. Listened for the creak of floorboards, the shuffle of sheets. He took his time cleaning up after their meal, tipping Will’s drugged wine down the sink as he finished his own.

By the time Hannibal entered Will’s room, the boy lay as a prince in a fairytale, spread out on his belly, sheets clinging to every curve of his form as he slept. Hannibal gathered Will to him, took him up and carried him downstairs again. Through the parlour, the sitting room, the music room, through to the back of the house that led to the floor below. Through the kitchen and wine cellar, and past the heavy door that closed off the stairs leading down to his workshop he took Will, laying him gently to the table prepared there.

From all the filth in the city, Hannibal had found the diamond within it. A beautiful and worthy boy deserving of Hannibal’s time and adoration. And in time, Will, too, would offer the same in return. Perhaps there would be a period of discomfort, as Will settled into his new life, understood the new rules that guided him within it, but he was a clever thing. He would learn. He would adapt. He would become what he was fated to be.

Hannibal drew a hand reverently over Will’s stump, caressing the shiny skin. This would be his most prized specimen, it would take its place in his office where all could see.

The first part of Will Graham, Hannibal would not consume, but raise on a pedestal. His flesh they would share together, in time.

Hannibal reached for an apron, checked his equipment as he tied it behind his back. In the corner of the room, he wound his phonograph, selecting Arthur Sullivan’s The Lost Chord as the first piece for the evening. With the first notes peeking through beneath the crackling needle, Hannibal began his work.

He washed his hands meticulously, taking care to lather his hands to the elbow before sluicing them clean. He prepared the anesthetic, concentrated on finding the nerve beneath Will’s delicate skin before pushing down the plunger. The boy on the table made a soft sound but did not wake. He wouldn’t, with how much he had imbibed, until morning; but Hannibal had no desire to cause his boy pain with this.

He set his pocket watch to the table beside Will and waited for the drug to numb his senses, to close off all communication from the brain to the limb the boy would no longer need.

He changed the cylinder to a new tune, and continued his work.

Amputation felt similar to sculpting. Everything had to be planned in advance if a beautiful and proper result was to be attained. No stretched skin that would cause the stump to turn gangrenous, no sharp edges of bone that would irritate the limb and encumber movement.

The last thing he wanted was for his boy to never dance again. The opposite, in fact, he wanted Will to feel as though he were flying when he moved; he wanted Will to understand that flesh held him back, that his mortal form could be built and rebuilt as he needed it to be. He tied a tourniquet tight on Will’s thigh, another higher up for good measure, and began.

The skin, first, just beneath the patella at the front, and halfway down the calf at the back. Hannibal took his time peeling it back, holding it against Will’s thigh with carefully set needles as he began to cut away the muscle next, to display the bone beneath. Arteries were cauterized, veins the same. Hannibal left just enough tissue to pad down against the stump and removed the excess.

He would cut through the cartilage, he decided, rather than the bones; remove the tibia and fibula with a single clean cut for display. The cylinder ended and crackled as Hannibal sawed, keeping time with the blips the needle made as it bumped over uneven wax and paper. A work of mere moments that felt like blissful eternity to Hannibal. He wrapped the useless limb in cloth and set it into the icebox before returning to sew his boy back together.

He had kept the patella, muscle below it, to allow Will to naturally bend his knee as he had before. He wove his veins back into the flesh with careful precision, nothing should be severed, nothing should be bent in a way that would cause undue stress to the body. He sewed Will with an elegant stitch, one that would scar and leave a pattern behind it. No thick scar tissue here, just a delicate set of crosses against Will’s skin.

When he was finished, the doctor worked free the tourniquets, massaged heat back into Will’s thigh and kissed the sweat from his forehead.

He washed Will’s body with a silk cloth, bathing Will as one would bathe a sick child. Only then did he take his apron off, distanced the gore from himself and the sutured thing in his arms, and carried Will to his room.

Another injection: opium to ease the mind and numb the pain, and Hannibal left the boy to rest as he returned to clean his workspace and prepare his new limb for display.

It was very early morning when Hannibal made his way to Will’s room once more, finding the boy laying as he’d left him, head turned into the pillow, brows gently furrowed in his sleep. The towel upon which lay Will’s leg was clean of fluids and blood, nothing had seeped through the gauze and bandages and Hannibal could not detect any scent of sickness or putrefaction about him.

No. He was perfect.

Hannibal poured a glass of water to set to the bedside table, brought forward a heavy armchair and settled himself in for sleep. He would not have Will wake up alone, concerned and confused. He would wake with him, soothe the boy’s worries and welcome him into his new life with Hannibal with open arms.

It would be hours yet until the opium wore off and Will muddled himself to wakefulness. Hours yet for the doctor to rest, himself. Hours yet until the dawn of their new reality together.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You think a lot of me."_
> 
> _"I think the world of you," Hannibal corrected, drawing a thumb beneath Will's eye. "You will stand. And walk. And dance. And you will be glorious."_
> 
> _"I will be glorious," Will repeated quietly, letting the words settle against him. "I will be glorious."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Major warning for this chapter:** gaslighting up the ass. Believe me, this made me feel a bit ill writing it coz I've had people tell me what I remember isn't true so just be careful. We did warn that this was going to be awful ;)
> 
> Also more GORGEOUS art from [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/) at the end, that gives away a little of what's to come for our boy, but we couldn't resist sharing it with you!

Will woke with a groan, shivering sleep from his eyes before he opened them. He was in his room but he couldn't place the time, the curtains were drawn and no lamps were on. He felt parched and groggy, exhausted, and sore, and somewhere at the back of his mind a tiny note of panic tickled.

Something was wrong.

"Will."

He turned his head.

Doctor Lecter sat in a chair near the bed, body forward and eyes bright with concern.

"Will can you hear me?"

He nodded, confused, and watched relief flood the doctor's form.

"You fell to fever," he said, "after dinner. I checked in on you before I went to bed and you would not wake."

Will frowned, made a soft sound, and gratefully accepted the doctor's aid in taking a sip of water. Nothing made sense. He could barely recall they'd had dinner at all, let alone figure out how long ago that was. He turned into the hand that drew through his hair.

"What happened?"

"Infection," Hannibal told him. "Viral and sudden. Others have not woken from it. You did."

Will swallowed thickly. He had seen boys fall to illness on the streets. Some suffering for months in pain before succumbing to a silent enemy. Others had fallen quick, as Hannibal described; one moment healthy, the next cold as porcelain.

The next sound he made was akin to a sob, heart beating quickly against his ribs and eyes stinging with the promise of tears. He could have died. He could have died that day. Will shifted as though to rise from bed but Hannibal pushed him back down.

"I had to intervene," he said softly, stroking Will's hair again. "I caught it before it could spread further, but -"

"What?" Will whined. "What did you do?"

"I saved your life, Will." Hannibal replied. He held the boy down a moment longer, soothing him with gentle hands, before reaching to pull back the covers for Will to see.

Another whine, a loud whimper, and Will turned his face into the pillow to sob.

Gone. His leg that he had so long lived with, worked with, reclaimed as his own. Gone entirely from below the knee.

Now he was crippled.

Now he was broken.

He clung to Hannibal when the other moved to sit on the bed, brought him close and cried against him like a child, messy and wet, hiccuping in his distress. What use was he to anyone now? What reason was there for him to exist at all when he couldn't dance, couldn't even move on his own?

Hannibal held him through it, stroked away his tears and cupped his cheek until the anguish ebbed to a still and quiet pain.

"My Will."

"I'm useless," Will told him softly, glancing up at the doctor. "I'm hideous."

"You are neither," the man assured him. "I will not allow you to be."

Will watched him closely, sought within those eyes a lie and found none. And only then did he close his eyes and nod. Resignation, not agreement. He opened his mouth to Hannibal's kiss and nuzzled him as the doctor held him near.

"I will bathe you," Hannibal said, "bring a meal and something to help you sleep. I will adjust the design for your leg, and you will stand come next week."

"You think a lot of me."

"I think the world of you," Hannibal corrected, drawing a thumb beneath Will's eye. "You will stand. And walk. And dance. And you will be glorious."

"I will be glorious," Will repeated quietly, letting the words settle against him. "I will be glorious."

It took a week for Will to heal enough for him to see the new stump without bandages. It was smoother than the last one, carefully set and sewn, and something about the familiarity of that perceived ugliness helped Will breathe easier.

He had survived. He had offered the ghosts and gods beyond this world his flesh in exchange and he had lived. And if he lived, he could thrive, just as he had before.

There were crutches by the bed for Will to use when the doctor wasn’t home, and though he hated them, without them he couldn’t get very far. Most mornings he would hobble over to his barre and practice, unable to do the full extent of his stretches and positions but enough to return strength to the muscles in his right leg. He stretched his left by setting it to the sill and bending his right knee, pulling the muscle as far as he safely could before standing again.

Over and over.

Every morning.

He had just enough flesh left beneath the knee to still articulate his limb, and he practiced that too; an arm around his thigh as he stretched his leg up, the knee bending and shifting as it would were there a limb to coordinate.

He learned his body anew again.

Hannibal was two weeks bereft; unable to share carnal pleasures with his boy, only able to sit and watch as Will showed him his progress in the study in the evening, and the doctor returned home to find Will sitting on his bed. Almost entirely bare, just black silk opera gloves shrouding Will’s elegant arms to the elbow, the boy flicked his curls from his face and spread his legs for him. No words necessary when Will’s eyes spoke volumes.

Hannibal spent the evening buried between his thighs, tasting his cock, his ass, the silken skin of the boy’s trembling legs as Will writhed and moaned for him. The gloves Will wore hid his arms against the sheets and he was, for a moment, a boy of a single healthy limb.

Hannibal nearly came with the thought.

He made love to Will late into the night, pushing him to orgasm more than once, relishing his voice as it went from pleasure to pain to pleading beneath him, finally leaving the boy be with a gentle kiss to tear-stained lips. He did not go to his office the next day, but indulged Will further. He carried the boy to bed when he’d exhausted him, and returned to his workshop to continue working on Will’s leg.

On the third week, Hannibal met Will in the library, home earlier than normal, and greeted him with a kiss.

“Will you come to the workshop with me?”

“I suppose I could,” Will grinned. He was much more graceful with the crutches now, though he still hated to use them. He deliberately took the stairs up and down rather than having someone carry him, or his food to him, instead. He followed Hannibal at his own pace to the back of the house but relented when he saw how steep and narrow the stairs leading into the basement were.

He’d never been down here, unless he was helping Hannibal in the kitchen. Will knew where the cellar was. He also knew that Hannibal kept a workshop beneath the house, but he had never had reason to enter either of them.

Will held on to the doctor as he was carried downstairs, nuzzling against his neck and tucking his good leg up against himself to avoid the rough stone walls. Dull electric bulbs lined the surface, enough to safely see the steps, and Will noticed a distinct lack of cobwebs over the wiring. The house was meticulous even to its very core.

He gazed curiously at the kitchen, tried to count the bottles in the wine cellar, and made a sound of surprise when Hannibal set him down by another door and took a key from his pocket to unlock it. 

The workshop was enormous, the size of the cellar and kitchen above it, the space of the whole house above that. Hannibal had meticulously divided the space to suit his purposes. He had running water down here, and two large deep sinks. There was a surgical table and several sets of shelves that Will was sure contained equipment. There were gas cannisters, cables, wires, carefully piled wood, rolls of fabric, jars upon jars of strange liquids. Some sections were curtained off and Will didn’t ask to see them. Already this was a wonderland of a scale he had not been able to imagine.

Hannibal sat him down on a raised bench and bent to carefully fold Will’s pant leg up over his knee. The stitching had healed perfectly, the stark crosses standing out against Will’s skin just as Hannibal had wanted. He bent to kiss reverently against the stump and felt Will shiver with the sensation. Still too new. Still too sensitive.

“I’ve made you something,” Hannibal told him, pressing a hand to Will’s face before stepping away to another bench, where something lay covered in a sheet. “It is an unconventional design, but our goal is agility and motion. A normal leg of any modern design is not yet crafted for more than slow ambulation, but this…”

Hannibal bunched the sheet in his hands and set it aside, picking up something Will couldn’t yet see over his shoulder. But when the doctor turned, Will could do nothing but stare.

Brass, he guessed. And heavy. Heavy enough to return to Will the sensation of having an entire limb again, bone, flesh, and blood within. Heavy enough to feel when he moved, heavy enough to use to guide his motions. It did not look like a foot, or a leg, or even a crutch. It was, instead, a perfect rendition of a beetle limb, complete with scalloped edges, grooves, teeth. It looked absolutely extraordinary.

“It articulates,” Hannibal explained, setting the leg to Will’s lap as he demonstrated. “There is a spring throughout to facilitate upward motion, a bounce if you will, that one usually gains by arching onto the ball of one’s foot. Certain mechanisms allow for adjusted height and angle, pressure-sensitive. A second will do little, several will allow the mechanism to switch, and your leg to adjust as you need it.”

Will couldn’t breathe. He had never seen anything so beautiful and macabre in his entire life.

_I would make you more than a man._

“I calculated its weight based on your measurements, it should feel like your own, when you grow accustomed to using it.”

His own. His own and entirely other. A breath shuddered from Will’s lips and he smiled. Perhaps he could be ethereal again. Beautiful again. He looked up, eyes wide and bright and filled with awe.

“I’ve never seen its like,” he whispered, reaching tentatively with his fingers to trace the shape of the prosthetic, metal cool beneath his fingers. Beneath formal wear no one would know the difference, Will would find a way to tie his shoes securely to the end of it and his pants would cover the rest. But unclothed… when he moved and stretched and danced, here, at the club…

“Let me try it on?”

The doctor’s smile smoothed his entire face; it was radiant. Will’s response had been above and beyond Hannibal’s expectations. Clever, beautiful thing. He set the leg aside for a moment and moved Will’s pant leg higher up, until the fabric was scrunched up against the top of his thigh, leaving the rest bare. He brought forward an ottoman and braced the prosthetic against it before setting the curved cup against Will’s stump.

Within, it was lined with velvet, for comfort, no sharp edges to hurt Will as he moved once callouses built around the shape. The garter was more elaborate than Will’s first, and wrapped like a corset over his thigh. Hannibal took his time to lace it, pulling it only tight enough to comfortably hold against Will’s muscles, not to cut off blood flow and hinder movement. Black leather against pale skin, laced with a teal cord that hung long and loose around the brass leg beneath.

Will swallowed, held the edge of the table as he tentatively moved his knee, feeling the heavy addition follow. It was an odd feeling but not an unpleasant one. He shifted enough to allow both his legs to swing free beneath the bench and for a moment did nothing more, allowing himself to grow used to the motion, to the new weight beneath him. He bit his lip, glancing up at Hannibal, and eased himself to the ground, a gasp of pleasure when he could stand comfortably once more, no need for crutches to aid him. He found his balance quickly, his center of gravity hadn’t shifted, and after a moment more of nervous hesitation he took a step.

Despite the obvious differences in anatomy, the leg functioned similarly to Will’s healthy human one. There was a joint for the ankle, one for the toes. He tested Hannibal’s instructions by adjusting the weight he held on the leg and for how long, listening to the delicate mechanisms within move to new positions, feeling himself understand how they would coordinate with Will’s motions.

He held to the bench and put his balance on the leg alone, poised, and laughed when he found his muscles adjusting to long-practiced sequences. He could do his exercises. He could stretch and lean and bend as before. He would need to practice, of course, but he could do it. He would do it.

Will turned to the doctor with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt and took the steps necessary to reach him, arms flinging up over his neck to hold him close as their mouths met and Will moaned into the kiss.

Hannibal held him, pride and pleasure pushing hard against his ribs as his beautiful boy took to his gift with such fervor. Will was extraordinary. He was remarkable. He was Hannibal’s very own.

“Does it suffice?” Hannibal asked, unnecessarily.

“It is fit for a prince,” Will replied, smiling. “But I suppose I can make do. Thank you.”

“You are very welcome, Will.” Hannibal drew his fingers through Will’s hair, soothed it behind his ears and stroked the pale expanse of Will’s throat pensively. The young man continued to cling to him, holding to Hannibal as though he had given him something invaluable. And Hannibal supposed he had. But in truth, Will had given him something just as unique, just as precious. He had given Hannibal his trust to guide him and restore him, and once that trust built, solidified, it would withstand the test of time itself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Am I radiant?” Will whispered._
> 
> _“Ethereal.” Hannibal replied. He drew down Will’s bottom lip with his thumb, rubbed white powder against his gums and grasped Will’s jaw to hold him still as he kissed him again. “Tempt them into frenzy,” he murmured. Will just smiled._
> 
> _“Watch me.”_
> 
> Welcome to Bacchanalia, folx...

Death crawled its beauty over London.

Day by day, Will watched the leaves beyond his window change to gold and red and brown as he stretched. Day by day he fell asleep to the rain pelting the windows, curled safe and warm in Hannibal’s arms.

As October crept nearer, Will was reminded of his obligations to the club, despite being in Hannibal’s care. Bacchanalia would soon be upon them, and Hellfire took to heart the pagan origins of the festival - inviting guests to spend not only the nights, but days there, wine flowing freely, boys rotated out in groups, if they were not the chosen sacrifices, to allow them rest. 

It was a festival that annually prompted the club to close for a week after, to thoroughly clean within, to take stock, to allow the boys to properly rest their bodies and limbs. It wasn’t spoken of often, that on occasion a sacrificial boy would not be seen again after. Used beyond his limits. Enjoyed in honor of the god of wine and sex and sin. One advantage of surviving Bacchanalia was that the boy would not be chosen as a sacrifice again.

Now a ward of the doctor, Will had no qualms about attending. He would not be the sacrificial lamb here, he would not have to offer his body for debauchery and pain. He was, for all intents and purposes, an honored guest; as important for one night as the men within the club believed themselves to be outside of it.

Will was expected to dance. To drink. To fuck if he so chose, and to entertain until the festivities wore to nothing on the second night and the dawning of the third day.

He requested to go shopping with Hannibal, in need of fresh ivy, of curled grapevines. He needed supplies, too, of kohl for his eyes and blush for his cheeks. Ink to draw elaborate patterns against his skin in honor of Bacchus, glyphs of Will’s own invention to thank whatever Gods had spared him death by taking his limb instead.

He would shave his body and oil his hair, sew with careful fingers the sheer cloth that would preserve whatever was left of his dignity until it was torn away by hungry hands.

Bacchanalia left men satisfied and boys irritable. Will delighted in the fact that he could return home with Hannibal once the festival came to an end and enjoy his freedom once more. He wondered if the doctor would have him there, sprawled for anyone to see as he fucked his boy as he so thoroughly and often did at home. He hoped he would. The thought of being owned, of being someone’s and of others’ envy as they watched crawled up Will’s skin like water from a hot bath.

Two days before the festival, as he and Hannibal indulged in a lavish dinner, Hannibal presented him with gifts. The things Will had requested and much more besides; bracelets and cuffs of genuine gold, rings with little gems within, a silver chain for Will to wear about his waist. He gifted Will new clothes to delight in: elegant pants and a pair of high boots, shirts with frothy sleeves and delicate corsetry in the back, vests and cravats, lacey bloomers, garters, stockings in the brightest white, collars of soft velvet and lace and leather.

Will was overwhelmed with pleasure, unsure how he could possibly have deserved such things when he was little more than a poor crippled boy with nothing to his name.

He bid Hannibal wait a moment, whispering in his ear to come upstairs in five minutes when he finished his wine. The doctor obliged, watching Will take his gifts with such reverence upstairs with him. Grateful, lovely thing. He was so comfortable on the prosthetic Hannibal had made him that when he was clothed, when he walked on soft carpet, Hannibal would have forgotten he was at all disadvantaged.

He took his time finishing his glass, allowed himself a moment more of anticipation, before taking the stairs to his bedroom.

Within, Will stood arched in a deep bend with his hands on the chest at the foot of Hannibal’s bed, clothed in naught but his new bloomers and velvet collar, lips painted bright as blood and eyes lined black. He grinned over his shoulder, and Hannibal noticed only then the crop Will held beneath his fingers in invitation for Hannibal to use.

He whipped the boy until welts stood stark over his ass and thighs. He broke skin twice, drawing his tongue hungrily over his cruelties as Will sobbed against the bed, cock hard and leaking in the froths of lace that covered him. Hannibal didn’t unclothe him when he fucked him, he merely shifted the fabric aside to get to Will and entered him roughly. Fingers in Will’s hair, a hand secure around his middle, Hannibal arched Will against him and whispered promises of filth in his boy’s ear until Will came with a cry and sought back for Hannibal with desperate hands.

Only when Hannibal reached his own orgasm did he turn Will to see him. Kohl had smeared black over his cheeks, making his eyes appear wider and brighter and so much more innocent. When Hannibal kissed him, Will kissed back, wrapping his arms tight around his master and letting his tears come quick and hot now that the agony was over. He was shaking, exhausted and in so much pain, and when Hannibal laid him to the bed on his belly Will was asleep before the doctor could clean his face with a warm wet cloth.

Hannibal took his time unlacing Will’s prosthetic and setting it away. He lay next to him and watched the slow breathing of his incredible boy, fingers ghosting touches over the marks he’d painted on his willing thighs.

In the morning, Hannibal lavished Will with praise and kindness. Applying ointment to his welts, offering something for the pain. He bathed Will and held his foot against his lap as he shaved the hair from Will’s leg and Will watched him, adoring.

Fresh from the bath, Hannibal had him again, pressed intimate and close as Will sat in his lap and languidly rode his cock until both were breathless. Then he let him sleep.

The evening of the festival, Will painted his face. He took his time lining his lips with red before filling them in, adding just a smudge of black in the center, blending it out. He lined his eyes. He worked sweet-smelling oil into his hair and stretched languid and bare before the mirror. He took his time painting upon his arms dedications to Bacchus, on his thighs dedication to whoever had spared his life.

He laced up his prosthetic and looped the long ends up through the silver chain at his hip to hang out of the way. Bracelets, next, the beautiful things Hannibal had gifted him. He chose rings for his fingers. He rouged his knees and the sharp points of his elbows. He set the wreath of ivy and vines upon his head like a crown of thorns.

And then he went to Hannibal’s bedroom and chose his robe to cover himself in, rather than his own, before meeting the man in the parlour below.

Hannibal was dressed as impeccably as he always was, and his eyes scanned the beautiful boy in front of him. When he kissed Will, it was a touch of lips to his forehead, reassuring and soft.

“You will be radiant,” he whispered, drawing his thumb over the boy’s sharp cheekbone. “Let them look. Let them want. Let them see what they cannot have.”

Will grinned, chin raised proudly. “I will.”

“And then come to me, and let me claim you as my own again.”

Will wasn’t even certain his acquiescence was verbal, he purred a pleased sound against the doctor’s hand, and followed him to the door and the hansom that awaited them.

Bacchanalia had its own rhythm, its own pulse. When Hannibal and Will parted at the door - a kiss to Will’s hand and a grin from the boy - Will made his way into the club without concern for being recognized. He would be. That’s why he was here.

He shed his robe and straightened his back and made his way to the atrium that had for so many months been his escape and his prison. It grew quiet enough that he could hear the sound of his prosthetic against the stone and his smile widened prouder for it.

_Let them look. Let them want._

Some boys recognized Will immediately, others were new. The one who had played the harp for Will’s dancing watched him with a mixture of awe and panic, as though Will had come back from the dead to grace them for the festival.

“Are you to be sacrificed?” Will asked him mildly, tilting his head as the boy shook his own. “Then smile.”

He didn’t.

But Will did.

Not the languid plastic smile the boys wore easily for the men at the club, not the bright wide thing he’d gifted Hannibal, not the coy and teasing line that lingered behind him like perfume.

No.

Will smiled like a predator. He smiled like a man between realms.

With the harp there were drums, tambourines and castanets; the fire had been stoked high in the grate and Will could feel himself already starting to sweat from it. He didn’t move until the music started, a cloying and tempting thing that spoke of drifting smoke and lapis bowls and desert sands; and when he started to dance, all other motion in the club stilled.

He felt alive again. 

He felt the freedom he’d so long been missing return to him like a long-forgotten lover. Every movement brought his heart to racing, every turn spun his vision in circles, every leap and twist and arch pulled Will outside of his body until he was watching it from above, as though in a trance.

He didn’t remember much after that.

More and more came through the doors. More and more imbibed the wine the sacrificial boys offered. More and more started to ignore the drink and took the boys instead, splayed wide for all to see.

Wine, and sin, and sex.

Will danced alone and with any boy who joined him. He moved as they did, teased until they followed him, touched, and tempted, and clung to them before they too were taken away by hungry hands, drunk on their own power.

Will was certain he didn’t stop moving for hours, not until a new boy tapped his shoulder and offered him a heavy goblet to drink from. He was shaking. He was soaked in sweat. Will felt more alive than he had in years. His eyes sought Hannibal in the crowd, wondering if he had mounted a boy, too, if he had stolen one away to beat for his own pleasure. The thoughts alone drew bile to his throat.

But he found him, unclaimed and untouched, watching Will as he had the first night he saw him, as he had the night he claimed him.

So Will went to him, proud and powerful, ignoring all hands that reached for him, and when he was near enough he pushed to his toes to kiss Hannibal hard, moaning into it, tasting wine sweet and rich on his tongue.

“Am I radiant?” Will whispered.

“Ethereal.” Hannibal replied. He drew down Will’s bottom lip with his thumb, rubbed white powder against his gums and grasped Will’s jaw to hold him still as he kissed him again. “Tempt them into frenzy,” he murmured. Will just smiled.

“Watch me.”

The night quickly descended into disorder. Limbs tangled into monstrous things of many heads and many voices, sheets and cloth and leather caught between them. Wine spilled and was lapped up by eager tongues. Semen spilled, and was similarly worshipped. Blood was spilled, and was ignored.

A chorus rose of whimpers and moaning, begging for more, for less, for nothing at all. Begging for mercy. Begging for pain. And through it all Will danced, and Hannibal watched him.

By dawn the boy at the harp was gone, and Will did not miss him. The drums were set aside, the tambourine, the castanets. No music but that of human voices - or what should have been human. Will was certain he was seeing visions of extraordinary things; beasts and gods and monsters. 

He found a goblet, downed its contents.

He found Hannibal, and drowned in him.

They didn’t seek a room, there was no need. Hannibal pushed Will up against a wall and sank to his knees before him to worship Will’s form. He caught Will’s knee and spread his legs, keeping the boy balanced on the point of his prosthetic as he sucked Will’s cock, brought him to orgasm. He didn’t let him go when Will whimpered in pain, instead pushing Will’s knee aside wider, mouth just as insistent as he forced Will’s cock to fill again.

A sacrificial boy, just for him.

He did not torment his boy beyond two. He stood and cradled Will against him as the young man dropped in a faint, exhausted and drunk and drugged, the pleasure too much for his body to handle.

Only then did he move to find space for them to take together, away from the orgy of madness that roared wanton in the atrium even still. Space enough to lay his boy out, to bring a cool cloth to his face and wipe his sweaty brow. To find water, and keep it near for when Will woke, along with grapes and oranges and dried figs and persimmons. Hannibal tended to him, praised him, worshipped him. He was there when Will woke with Hannibal’s name upon his lips and kissed the taste of it from him.

And he was there to kiss Will’s hand once more, when - come evening - the harp called him forth to dance once again; the spirit of autumn and wine embodied. Bacchus in his human form.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will found himself drawn to the watercolors and sketches on the walls, as Hannibal took his time examining the Living Patients. He quickly found which were Hannibal’s, not only by his signature but by recognizing his style of drawing. He found, to his deep pleasure, that there were several sketches of himself among the others. In some, he was laying prone, lax in rest, arms and legs akimbo. In others, he was examining his prosthetic, adjusting it, working with it in the mornings. Such candid pictures made Will blush, thinking of how deeply Hannibal saw him to be able to bring those likenesses to the page._
> 
> Will and Hannibal go out into society... and things don't quite go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay y'all so the International Medical Congress did happen in London that year :D I was STOKED to be able to let them go to an actual historical event.

Will had never imagined that so many people would attend a medical conference. And yet as he and Hannibal stepped out of their cab outside of Burlington House, hundreds upon hundreds of people were milling about in excited anticipation. The International Medical Congress held an air of a carnival, for Will; people from Europe and farther still that had gathered in London to discuss, learn about, and share medical innovations with each other. 

Hannibal had been invited as an honored guest, as several of his sketches as well as some of his more rare specimens were loaned to the Geological Society. Will wasn’t sure that he could get himself particularly excited seeing misshapen human forms, but as Hannibal’s date he had no choice but to appear as fascinated as everyone around them.

He had been dressed that morning in his finest garments, a corseted shirt with a frothed collar and sleeves, a silk embroidered waistcoat with a pocket for his watch. Dark pants and buttoned boots, worked snug over the addition Hannibal had made to Will’s prosthetic to allow him to fit into his footwear. A heavy coat to protect against the wind, a woolen scarf around his neck, leather gloves over fine fingers. Will felt almost regal.

On Hannibal’s arm, he felt almost royal.

The Congress was divided into fifteen sections, talks, exhibitions, presentations among them. Some were held at Burlington House, others at the London University. Hannibal, Will knew, was scheduled to present and discuss his research into prosthetics and ambulation post trauma; he’d asked Will to come along and be a living model for him. That was how this entire endeavour had started.

But that wasn’t until the late afternoon, and before that The Exhibit of Living Patients awaited them, and Will ducked his cheek against Hannibal’s shoulder as they walked through the arched doorway.

Though they were early, quite a crowd had already gathered in the small room. Harried Society volunteers guided guests through to parlours and rooms to wait their turn to enter, determined to keep order as voices fluttered in excitement and conversations grew louder around them. Hannibal ducked his head to whisper in Will’s ear, explaining the significance of such an exhibit, introducing the man behind the idea, Dr. Johnathan Hutchinson.

“He is interested mostly in sufferers of Lupus,” Hannibal continued, as they made their way nearer the door, well-dressed ladies and gentlemen passing them on their way out. “Those with myxoedema, or facial deformities.”

“Curious that someone would be so inclined towards the grotesque,” Will murmured back. Hannibal’s laugh was warm against him.

“Horror has often drawn morbid fascination,” Hannibal told him, “as has beauty. Sometimes both equally as impossible as the other.”

“You chose beauty,” Will pointed out, amused. Hannibal narrowed his eyes at him and ducked his head in acquiescence. Will preened. He had turned heads already, just walking along Piccadilly the short distance they had. He knew that Hannibal had noticed, his hand tightening against Will’s own as though to claim him with the gesture alone.

They neared the exhibition room, just a couple before them and a man on his own, holding a pamphlet so close to his nose Will wondered how he could see anything at all.

“Was it beauty you donated to the Exhibit?” Will asked, turning to the doctor next to him again, finding Hannibal equally as intrigued by the man in front of them.

“Some,” he replied. “I suppose it would be more accurate to suggest that the things I donated could be seen as beautiful by those who see beauty in all things.”

“Not just the obvious?”

“No,” Hannibal narrowed his eyes at Will once more, a smile just hinted at the corners of his lips. His boy was curious, he was clever. He knew that Will had never been to such an exhibit before, and in truth Hannibal hoped that it would spark a curiosity within him that would burn bright when they returned home. Will understood his own body, he enjoyed it, and he certainly knew how to appreciate Hannibal’s own. But there was something to be said about the sheer power that came with overpowering, that came with making beauty out of the grotesque, as Will had so eloquently put it.

They didn’t wait much longer to enter, and when they did, Hannibal immediately led Will off to the side of the room to meet a tall, bespeckled, bearded man rather than to the center of the room where the Exhibit truly began.

“Dr. Hutchinson,” Hannibal shook his hand, his smile genial and - Will noticed - more than. He was in awe of the man, not merely playing at pleasantries. The feeling seemed to be mutual, as Dr. Hutchinson grasped Hannibal’s hand with both of his own in his eagerness.

“Dr. Lecter. Marvellous to see your fine work here,”

“In such fine company, I must say it’s an honor,” Hannibal added, turning to look at Will before introducing him. “Mr. Will Graham. My ward. And a protege of sorts,”

Will held out his hand to the older man, finding himself smiling when his eyes - enlarged to an almost comical degree - met Will’s as though he wanted to do nothing at all this day but be introduced to insignificant young men.

“Dr. Hutchinson,” he replied.

“Are you a medical man, Mr. Graham?”

“I can’t say I am, sir,” Will admitted, ducking his head, “but I have felt my interests swayed of late.”

“Good, good,” the doctor smiled at him, nodded to Hannibal. “Very good. Our field needs more cunning young minds than ever before. We are on the precipice of revolutionary discoveries and innovations.”

“Doctor Lecter has been kind enough to show me,” Will agreed, turning back to his mentor. “And was kind enough to bring me here.”

“Take your time, my dear boy,” Hutchinson told him. “Enjoy yourself. Allow your mind to open to the new possibilities before us.”

Will smiled as he was guided away, pushed his hands into his pockets as he ducked his head and considered that the man hadn’t noticed that Will was crippled, hadn’t made a single comment about it, hadn’t had his eyes shift meaningfully to Will’s prosthetic leg beneath his pants.

The Exhibit proved to be almost too much for Will. Perhaps he hadn’t yet developed a fascination for the grotesque, perhaps he never would. He found himself feeling somewhat ill as he looked at the ailments these poor people had suffered; growths and deformities, disarticulated limbs, lesions and skin that did not look like any human skin ever should.

Will found himself drawn to the watercolors and sketches on the walls, as Hannibal took his time examining the Living Patients. He quickly found which were Hannibal’s, not only by his signature but by recognizing his style of drawing. He found, to his deep pleasure, that there were several sketches of himself among the others. In some, he was laying prone, lax in rest, arms and legs akimbo. In others, he was examining his prosthetic, adjusting it, working with it in the mornings. Such candid pictures made Will blush, thinking of how deeply Hannibal saw him to be able to bring those likenesses to the page.

He met Hannibal at the door with a smile, and tucked his arm into Hannibal’s own.

“Was it beautiful?” Will asked him. And Hannibal had to smile at the innocence in his question, the genuine desire to understand mingling with his confusion.

“Exceedingly,” Hannibal replied.

They didn’t stay for the talks, they were due at the university for Hannibal’s own presentation, of which Will was to be a part. Not much was required of him. He was to walk upon the stage, clothed and comfortable. Bend, and turn, and dance if he wished, before revealing beneath his pants the prosthetic that aided him in all of his actions.

Hannibal had brought prototypes of other limbs with him, limbs that were useless to Will who had his own. Those would be available for perusal throughout the Congress, perhaps purchased by those in need who could afford the fee. All were lovely, but Will was certain that none were as beautifully planned out or executed as his own.

The talk began on time, and the hall was almost filled to capacity when Hannibal stepped up to the podium to speak. Will sat in the front row and watched, allowing his attention to drift as Hannibal went over the history and design amendments made in America and Britain over the last few decades in regards to prosthetic limbs. He caught the eye of a young man who winked at him and Will grinned back.

When he turned back to the stage, his cheeks were flushed with pleasure.

Will thought he performed admirably. He mounted the stairs without trouble, took his time pacing the stage at different speeds as Hannibal directed, balanced on one foot, stretched it out as he did every morning at the barre. When he bent to draw up the pant leg for the big reveal, he felt all eyes on him, heard the gasps of surprise in seeing how easily Will moved with a beetle’s leg, rather than his own.

He stood as still as he could as Hannibal pointed out the mechanisms and justified the unusual design. He took a chair when the leg was taken off him, for Hannibal to manipulate in his hands and show the audience. Will felt the gaze of the young man on him again and looked up, only to find that the flirtatious smile had been replaced with a look of confusion and distaste. He didn’t look out into the crowd after that. He kept his eyes to the stage and only lifted them when Hannibal knelt beside him to help him lace the leg back on.

Will found he had no stomach for company, but had no choice but to face it with Hannibal as people crowded them after his talk, wanting to see Will up close, to touch the prosthetic, to ask Dr. Lecter more and more and more invasive questions. Will forced politeness, offered tight smiles, obediently showed those curious how easy it was for him to move and use the limb. 

He could feel bile rising in his throat as more and more young women fawned over Hannibal, draping their lace-gloved hands over his arm, leaning close to listen to his accented voice answer their insipid questions. Will wasn’t as kind in his answers, he was short and rude and sharp with them, ignoring their upset when it showed clearly on their painted faces.

Will didn’t know how long they took questions before Hannibal allowed them to take their leave, but he was exhausted. He ached for a glass of wine and to fall into bed with Hannibal behind him, but when he moved to press up against his doctor he found no reciprocation.

“That was rude, Will,” Hannibal told him curtly, tucking his elbow against his side so Will couldn’t wheedle his arm through. “I abhor rudeness.”

Will flushed but said nothing, working his expression to a stoic neutrality as they made their way through the university, through the throngs of people still meandering about, and towards the street where Hannibal called for a hansom.

They rode in silence, and the farther they got from the university, the deeper Will’s guilt burrowed in his chest. Perhaps he had been unfair; he had Hannibal to himself every day, any time he wished. He knew the power he held over the man without much effort at all and yet he had acted out, petulant, like a child, when others had shown their appreciation for the man’s talent and skill.

He looked at the doctor next to him, found his expression unchanged. He did not look at Will, he did not turn to him even when Will didn’t look away. He sat and looked forward, or turned his head slightly to consider London as it passed by them beyond the cab. Will felt choked, like he couldn’t breathe, like he couldn’t move properly until Hannibal looked at him again. He didn’t feel whole.

When they disembarked at the door, Will attempted again to touch him, finding his hands deliberately peeled away and set to his sides before Hannibal turned to unlock the door for them.

Hannibal did not speak to him before dinner.

He did not speak to Will during.

When Will came to him for bed, Hannibal politely told him to seek rest in his own room, and Will couldn’t take it. Not that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, setting his hip to the bed and pressing his hands against his thigh. “I’m sorry, Hannibal, please. I didn’t wish to be rude.”

“And yet you were,” Hannibal replied. “Thoroughly and deliberately so.”

“I’m sorry,” Will breathed, eyes wide when Hannibal merely hummed in answer.

“Mere words, Will, shall gain you nothing. They are hollow without actions as their foundation.”

“Please,” Will tried again, shifting just a little closer as the doctor continued to pointedly ignore him in favor of the book in his hand. “Please let me make amends.” He swallowed, felt his pulse shudder in his chest at the thought that there would be nothing he could do, nothing at all, to get into Hannibal’s good graces again.

“Hannibal, I’ll do anything.”

At this, the doctor looked at him. He studied the boy’s face, drawn in concern, eyes wide with worry. How beautiful he was, truly, though yet entirely untamed. And taming worked best when the animal approached it on its own; force did little more than drive a wedge between master and boy.

“Perhaps you can atone for your misbehaviour in kind,” Hannibal agreed, folding the book closed over his finger, watching Will’s expression immediately alight at the prospect. “As you so rudely humiliated the young women today, so you will debase yourself for me, until I feel you have done enough to warrant my forgiveness.”

Will swallowed, his breathing stuttered, and his mind whirled with countless possibilities. But when he sat nearer still, he took Hannibal’s hand and kissed it, pressing his palm to his cheek and meeting the man’s eyes.

“Anything,” he promised.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“There are different kinds of pain, dear Will,” he told him, stepping nearer, watching them both reflected in the mirror. “I never wish to cause you the kind you fear, so you will administer this punishment on my behalf, do you understand?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Hannibal being a manipulative cunt, figging, humiliation, spanking, gaslighting.

Will’s punishment was not immediate.

Once more he was told to return to his own bed for the night, that he was not deserving of Hannibal’s company that evening after he’d behaved like a child. And Will had gone, duly chastised, and curled into a ball beneath the sheets.

He was used, now, to Hannibal having him every day, either with deliberate and slow thrusts, or hard and fast, Will barely able to catch his breath. Being sent to bed without, left Will aching. He slipped a hand between his legs and closed his eyes to imagine that he had been good, instead, that they had left the university and Hannibal had barely been able to keep his hands to himself in the cab, that they had entered the house and Will had been carried through to the dining room where Hannibal had made a feast of him spread bare and lovely on the table.

Will’s orgasm brought him little pleasure, and he sulked into his pillow until sleep took him.

In the morning he rose early but found that he couldn’t go about his usual routine at the barre. He kept thinking back to Hannibal’s disappointment in him, to Hannibal’s displeasure at how Will had so let him down. It made him feel ill, it brought about an ache worse than after any beating. Will was restless. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. So he dressed himself nicely, as a boy in the keeping of Doctor Lecter should dress, and went to wait for Hannibal in the dining room.

By the time the man arrived, Will was nearly out of his mind with guilt. He had to catch the chair behind him as he’d stood so quickly as to push it over.

“Dr. Lecter,” he said, “Hannibal. I’m - I would like to express my remorse for the past evening in whatever way you would have me do it. Please.”

_Anything._

Hannibal had taken his time coming down to breakfast. He’d allowed himself the memory of Will’s desperation the night before, his terrible need to prove himself anything but a disappointing, rude boy. He was such a perfectly malleable thing in his youth and innocence; thinking himself wild and yet aching desperately for a taming hand.

Hannibal looked at his boy, now, contrite and quiet, truly remorseful before him. Any other would not have taken Hannibal’s chastisement to heart, but Will… Will was special. Will was perfect.

Will was _his._

Moment by moment and day by day, more and more Hannibal’s, entirely by Will’s own choice.

“Come with me,” was all he said, though he wanted nothing more than to gather Will to him, to tell him he was already so proud of how deeply the boy wanted to please him.

He would, in time.

One trained most effectively through consequences, the good and the bad, and he would have Will learn.

Will followed him through the house, down into the kitchen - where he waited for Hannibal to gather something he couldn’t see before moving forth into - the cellar, down further into Hannibal’s workshop. He kept his head ducked, his hands before him, fingers twisting over each other again and again as he thought of how else he could convince Hannibal that he would never disappoint him again.

He followed and stopped as Hannibal did, watched the doctor draw back one of the curtain dividers to reveal a surprisingly innocent looking device. It was an elaborately decorated metal platform, first and foremost, with two levers at one end and a long wooden handle at the other. Cogs and screws interrupted the smooth materials once in a while, holding together something Will couldn’t parse just then. A large spring coiled where the wooden handle met the platform, disappearing within; copper bright against the dull steel. Will brought a hand to his mouth and chewed the side of his thumb gently, eyes flicking between the machine and Hannibal who walked about it to stand across from Will.

“Human beings have the most incredible capacity to learn, Will,” Hannibal said. “We learn most effectively when we are subjected to the cruelties we have wrought on others, to never act that way again.”

Will nodded slowly, understanding the concept of his punishment but not yet its practicality.

“Tell me of your misdemeanor, Will, in your own words.”

Will swallowed. “I was rude and unkind to the young women who sought your attention after the lecture,” he said quietly. “I embarrassed them for taking your attention, when I had no right.”

Hannibal inclined his head, unable to hide the smile that tilted the corners of his eyes. Clever boy.

“And so you will bring it now upon yourself. Undress, set your clothes neatly away.”

Will hesitated, but only a moment. He wanted Hannibal to look at him again, to be pleased with him again. He removed his vest and shirt, folding them first. Then his shoes, his trousers, his underwear. He stood before Hannibal bare and blushing, and forced himself to meet his eyes. The workshop was cold, much colder than the house, and Will’s body immediately alighted with goosebumps. He didn’t move to warm or cover himself, he waited.

Hannibal looked his fill, enjoying his boy as he did every moment he got to watch him. He considered his predicament, his body shivering already, and smiled.

“You shan’t be cold for long, Will. You will soon warm up nicely.” Slow steps took him around the device between them and a little further into the workshop, from whence he brought a mirror. He leaned it against one of the worktops, reflecting the machine from the lever-end, before gesturing for Will to step up onto the platform. The metal was even colder beneath his foot and Will curled his toes before standing still.

“There are different kinds of pain, dear Will,” he told him, stepping nearer, watching them both reflected in the mirror. “I never wish to cause you the kind you fear, so you will administer this punishment on my behalf, do you understand?”

Will didn’t, but he nodded, he caught Hannibal’s eyes in the mirror, turned his head to catch them in person and drew his bottom lip between his teeth. Hannibal’s expression gentled somewhat, just enough for Will’s tension to ease. He touched Will’s cheek, drew his thumb beneath those wonderful blue eyes and over Will’s plush mouth and then moved away.

“Set your feet to the width of the platform and bend over, Will. Hands on the levers.”

Will immediately complied. He avoided his own eyes in the mirror, though he was certain that was part of the punishment itself, and instead allowed himself to track Hannibal’s movements about the workshop. He watched him take something from his pocket and move to a workbench out of Will’s sight. A gentle scraping, like a knife against wood, and a smell filled the room that Will recognized but couldn’t place; tangy and spicy and warm. He licked his lips and waited, casting his eyes down once more when Hannibal turned around.

He heard something being adjusted behind him, on the long handle perhaps, listened to the tightening of screws, the squeaking of cogs fitting into place. Then Hannibal set a warm palm to Will’s bottom and Will shivered.

“Arch your back for me,”

Will did, happy to comply with something so simple. He closed his eyes as Hannibal’s finger sought between his cheeks, penetrating him just with the tip before his hand spread Will open to work something else into him instead.

It was cool, no thicker than Will’s thumb, perhaps, and oddly shaped. It wasn’t slick with lubricant, and Will opened his mouth to ask what it was when Hannibal turned it, just enough, and pressed it a little deeper, a bulb further up pushing into Will’s hole and holding the thing in place.

And then came the sting. A slow burning that Will felt immediately and clenched against on instinct. That only made it worse.

“Ginger,” Hannibal told him, hand still against Will’s bottom as he watched him squirm in discomfort. “A freshly peeled root brings a very sharp sting to sensitive skin. The more you clench, Will, the more it will hurt.”

Will knew he was right but he couldn’t help his body’s immediate response to the pain; he wanted to push it out, to be rid of it, muscles squeezing and relaxing over and over until he brought a hand back to touch.

“Do not,” Hannibal’s voice was very quiet, very low, and Will immediately assumed his position again, a helpless sound escaping him as the ginger moved within him. “You will take your punishment, Will. Do not disappoint me.”

Will shook his head, already girding himself against the pain within him. He would stand here all day, all night if it meant Hannibal would forgive him. The heat within him was already overwhelming in the cold of the room and he could feel sweat beading against his skin over the goosebumps there.

“Pull on the levers in your hands towards you, Will,” Hannibal told him next. “At the same time.”

Will swallowed and did as he was told.

A sharp spank hit him square over the curve of his bottom, pushing harshly against the root between his cheeks and Will cried out, letting go in confusion. He glanced back behind himself, and the necessity for the long handle suddenly made sense. 

Attached to the end was a wide wooden paddle, the kind Will had often encountered at Hellfire in the hands of a man or two determined to make him suffer. Here, he knew that the spring coiling into the platform controlled the implement; he would pull the levers and the paddle would strike him. Over and over. He was the master of his own punishment and the realization blurred his vision a moment. He blinked rapidly to clear it before turning to Hannibal.

The doctor blinked slowly, raised an eyebrow, and Will knew that he would bend, and he would hold the levers, and he would pull, until Hannibal was satisfied.

When he’d taken his position again, knees trembling, Hannibal stepped close enough to grasp Will’s hair and lift his face to meet his own reflection.

“Fifteen,” he said, “to start. And with each, you will apologize for your behaviour.”

Will made a sound, a helpless and weak thing, and forced himself not to think of the last time he’d met his eyes in the mirror for punishment. That was then, long ago gone. He was stronger now. And this punishment was deserved. He swallowed thickly, pursed his lips, and pulled.

“One,” Hannibal said, voice pitched low, calm. He waited. Watched as Will licked his lips.

“I apologize for my inexcusable rudeness,” he managed, once the slap of the paddle warmed his skin, sensitized it. After a moment, a shivering breath, he pulled again.

“Two.”

“I apologize for my inexcusable rudeness,” Will’s voice was softer, closer to a whisper. He had to close his eyes to ground himself before he met Hannibal’s eyes in the mirror’s reflection and obeyed the unspoken command.

“Three, Will.”

Will wasn’t sure which sting burned the deepest: the ginger in his bottom, the paddle that seemed to spank him harder every time he pulled the levers, Hannibal’s voice, serene and indifferent, or the humiliation of his apology, delivered to himself in the mirror.

By the eighth, he couldn’t manage the full sentence. By the eleventh he was sobbing. By fifteen, Will’s voice drew high on a wail.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, “I’m sorry, Hannibal, I’m sorry -”

He brought a hand up to try to stem the flow of tears that were slicking his cheeks, hanging from his chin and dripping to the platform between his hands. He cried out louder when Hannibal set a hand to his red ass and drew his nails harsh over the skin.

“I know,” Hannibal told him, scratching and soothing Will’s skin until Will could barely keep himself balanced. Then he relented, thumbing the base of the ginger root before stepping away. “Ten more.”

And Will obeyed. 

Hannibal didn’t count these aloud, simply watching Will debase himself so willingly. He was sweating now, the ginger agonizing within him, body overwhelmed with pain and embarrassment and need. He’d never looked more beautiful.

Will was sobbing, weeping, absolutely distraught by the time he finished, voice no longer forming words but sounds of anguish and remorse. He slipped to his knees, his prosthetic going out from under him, and caught himself in a crouch, crying pitifully into the palm of his hand as Hannibal’s fingers slid into his hair.

“Sweet boy,” he murmured, tugging Will’s curls gently. “Sweet, sweet boy, you’ve done so well.”

At the words, Will cried even harder, unsure if it was from relief or pain. He shuddered when Hannibal guided his hips up, gasped when the ginger was removed and Hannibal’s tongue replaced it, soothing away the sting with gentle licks. Will’s sobbing turned to panting, his cock hard between his legs despite the humiliation, the overstimulation of the entire endeavor. He rocked back against Hannibal’s mouth, nails catching against the ornamentation of the platform as his hands curled into fists.

Hannibal pulled back with a sound of appreciation, of pleasure, and bit hard against one red-spanked cheek before standing once more. He eased Will’s face against his thigh, watching him in the mirror as Will nuzzled against him, face wet with tears and snot and spit. Lovely, innocent thing; how ravishing he was broken.

“Stand up, Will. Assume your position.”

Will looked up, confused. Hannibal tilted his head. “We are not through. You have atoned for your rudeness, now you must take responsibility for it.”

Will was unsteady getting up, and Hannibal caught his arm to help him find his balance, to ease him into that beautiful bend again. Hannibal turned to work the paddle free of the machine and held it where Will could see when he stood up again.

“You have earned this punishment, Will. And you have taken it well. These last few, I shall administer, and you will thank me for each.”

Will met his eyes in the mirror, searched his face before nodding slowly, setting his hands to the platform, now, instead of the levers, knees bent just enough to keep himself balanced. He didn’t make a sound as Hannibal hit him, nothing beyond a soft _thank you, sir_, that went straight to Hannibal’s cock with every utterance.

Will was so lovely in his contrition, in his penitence. He was so beautiful in pain, as it trembled through the threads of his voice every time Hannibal struck him. Tears continued to stream from his eyes, his top lip wet where his nose had dripped. He was a mess of the base of humanity. He was stunning. Hannibal stopped at ten, only because Will was shaking, and for a first time offence, he had certainly paid his dues.

When Hannibal set the paddle aside, he helped Will straighten up, catching the boy against his chest when Will fell forward.

“All is forgiven,” he told him, stroking Will’s curls from his forehead, wiping the tears from under his eyes. “My sweet boy, you suffered so beautifully for your sins.”

And the way Will looked at him, eyes glazed and bright and wide, like Hannibal was the light at the end of a freezing tunnel, like Hannibal was a boat in a lifeless sea. When Will reached for him and kissed him, Hannibal hummed into it, holding Will close, relishing the way little hands clutched at him and held him near despite his cruelties, despite his pleasure in them.

“Your boy, Hannibal, I'm your boy,” Will breathed against him, nuzzling at Hannibal’s cheek. “Yours. Thank you for making me better,”

_You will be glorious._

Hannibal held him, heart swelling with pleasure as his boy continued to kiss him, lips gentle and sweet; Hannibal’s forgiveness the only balm needed against the pain he’d so willingly suffered. Hannibal caught him beneath the thighs and lifted Will against him, pulling him close, kissing away the pained sound Will made as Hannibal’s hands touched his punished skin. He carried him through the workshop, uncaring for the lights he left on, the clothes Will left behind.

_Moment by moment._

Up the stairs and to the music room, where a chaise lounge would suit their aching needs just fine.

_Day by day._

Hannibal kissed Will deeply, pressed him into the silk, and guided his hands down to Hannibal’s cock, bulging and hot in his pants. Will whimpered, lifted his eyes to watch Hannibal’s as his fingers worked free the buttons and sought within. Hungry for him. Aching for him. Desperate. 

He would be Hannibal’s boy entirely.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Would you send me away?” Will asked, his tone was almost wistful. Hannibal completed the last touches to the design at Will’s toe and set the needle aside, he brought a damp cloth to pat away any blood and leaked ink and kissed Will’s shin._
> 
> _“What for, sweet boy?”_
> 
> _“My sexual deviance,” Will grinned brightly, drawing his lip between his teeth. “For a start.”_
> 
> _“For a start,” Hannibal repeated, setting Will’s foot to the side of him to the floor as he sat forward, closer to Will in his armchair, and rested, kneeling, between his boy’s legs. “I could hardly be so hypocritical. And I would miss you dearly if I did.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER**: semi-graphic descriptions of amputation (no actual amputation though), getting off to graphic amputation descriptions, manipulation.

Will considered Hannibal over his cigarette holder, the doctor bent as though in worship over his leg, a needle in one hand, ink on the table beside him. He was working a simple pattern over Will’s foot, lines and dots in deep indigo ink, starting from his big toe and working upwards. A straight line that would culminate in split wings around Will’s knee; a more sophisticated version of Mercury’s feet, he supposed, since he had both of his knees.

He ashed his cigarette and brought his thumb to his lips, chewing it absently as Hannibal continued his deliberate stabbing, over and over, rhythmic and painful. Will found the pain to be almost hypnotic; not enough to outright  _ ache  _ but… it thrilled him, it was similar to when he danced. There was a freedom to finding and pushing the limits of your body.

“Hannibal.”

He looked up, gazing at Will as he sat reclined, eyes not on him even as he addressed the doctor. Will swallowed, took another slow drag from the silver holder and let the smoke coil free between his lips.

“The patients you see as an alienist, how do they come to be where they are?”

“Madness is a spectrum,” he replied carefully, easing a thumb over Will’s calf as he returned to his tattooing. “People may find themselves institutionalized for any number of reasons.”

“Such as what?”

Hannibal smiled. “Some are criminally minded,” he said. “Thoughts that lead to actions. They may have killed their family, their children, attempted to hurt others and themselves. Others claim to hear voices, to be reincarnations of anyone from Jesus Christ to the Devil himself.”

“Really?” Will’s smile was small but genuine, he set his cigarette aside and curled a hand under his cheek to watch Hannibal that way. The doctor smiled back at him. 

“Really.”

“What else?”

“Sexual deviance,” Hannibal replied smoothly, smile widening. “I find, in truth, those to be the most interesting to converse with, and unfortunately the most sane within the entire establishment.”

“Would you send me away?” Will asked, his tone was almost wistful. Hannibal completed the last touches to the design at Will’s toe and set the needle aside, he brought a damp cloth to pat away any blood and leaked ink and kissed Will’s shin.

“What for, sweet boy?”

“My sexual deviance,” Will grinned brightly, drawing his lip between his teeth. “For a start.”

“For a start,” Hannibal repeated, setting Will’s foot to the side of him to the floor as he sat forward, closer to Will in his armchair, and rested, kneeling, between his boy’s legs. “I could hardly be so hypocritical. And I would miss you dearly if I did.”

Will hummed, drew his heel up against Hannibal’s side, coaxing him closer if he wished. Hannibal folded his arms on Will’s thighs and set his chin atop, watching Will as Will so often watched  _ him _ , positions suddenly reversed.

“There are other boys.”

“There  _ were  _ other boys,” Hannibal corrected him. “No more.”

Will preened, he couldn’t help it. He could feel his blush creeping over his nose. Instead, he tilted his chin up proudly.

“For my criminal mind, then.” He said.

“The things that have been done to you have been criminal,” Hannibal agreed. “That hardly makes your mind a criminal one.”

“How can you be sure?”

Hannibal looked at him a moment more, then set his hands to the seat of the chair either side of Will’s slim hips and levered himself up to kiss him, chaste and gentle. “What are you thinking, Will?”

Will sighed, turned his head aside and closed his eyes as Hannibal kissed his cheek instead. “I dream, sometimes,” he admitted, “of past wrongs. Things that happened. Things that should not have. Things that could have. I remember. The boys who hurt me, their faces when they laughed, even as the carriage drove away, even as they could see their prank was more than just childish whimsy. The man who brought me to the club, the things he -”

Will swallowed, eyes hard when he turned them back to Hannibal. “I feel haunted by them, and they are not yet dead. They shouldn’t have that power over me.”

Hannibal met his eyes, allowed Will’s anger to flow through him and around him, potent and wild. Beautiful, clever boy. He had flourished in Hannibal’s care, had tamed much easier to his hand, once he understood the fundamental rules Hannibal required him to obey. He was an extraordinary thing, with potential that Hannibal was certain Will didn’t even know to look for in himself.

He had woken, some nights, to Will thrashing against him, caught in the cold grasp of a nightmare. Hannibal had watched, the way Will whimpered and fought off invisible attackers, the way he’d cry out, seeking help from ghosts. Some nights he would wake him, soothing his hair from his face, holding Will against him as he trembled. Other nights he let the nightmares play, watched Will twist like a puppet on a string, choking on his anguish. Several times Will had wet the bed in his panic, unconscious of it only because Hannibal would take him up and prepare him a bath before he could wake, the sheets already changed when he returned.

“Thoughts lead to actions,” Will repeated after a while, drawing a hand over his lips. “I think of hurting them. All of them. In the ways they hurt me, and worse. I take pleasure in it. Some nights -” he held his breath, eyes flicking to Hannibal, worried, wide. Hannibal met them just the same. Will swallowed. “Some nights I wake aroused, aching between my legs at the thought of my vengeance. In the aftermath of a dream where I made them suffer.”

Hannibal had to wilfully control his breathing, keep it steady as Will spoke. In the months he had kept him, Will had never stopped surprising him, like Sheherezade with her tales. Another night, another revelation; something to turn Hannibal’s previously set plans on a new course.

“Would you not send me away for that?” Will asked him softly.

Hannibal blinked, watched Will as Will watched him and leaned in once more to kiss him, a hand to his chin, easing the tension from his muscles.

“I could hardly be so hypocritical,” he whispered, meeting Will’s eyes as he held him still and waited.

Will heard the words, parsed them. For a while he said nothing, just his lips parting on a breath and remaining open. And then a moment of clarity, of understanding. Brows lifted, breath held, eyes wide and -

“There were other boys,” Will murmured. Hannibal nodded.

“There were.”

“And me,”

“And you.”

Will’s heart beat quicker, he felt the heat in his cheeks slide down his throat and wondered, for a moment, why he wasn’t fighting for his life right then, why he wasn’t screaming for help, running for the door…

Because Hannibal wasn’t chasing him. Because he wasn’t fighting him. Because he kissed Will like the most precious thing on earth, and punished him only to make him better. Because he had rebuilt him, encouraged him, allowed him to flourish.

“Did you plan to kill me?” Will asked him softly, bringing his fingers to his lips again, an almost painfully childish gesture, as Hannibal leaned up to kiss his knuckles.

“To consume,” he corrected, “not to kill.”

“Consume…” Will understood immediately and he didn’t want to. He  _ didn’t want to _ . The times Hannibal would wrap his limbs in the sheets in bed as he fucked him, the time Will wore the long opera gloves and Hannibal had begged him to keep them on the night through, the way he worshiped Will’s scar on his stump -

“And now?”

“Now,” Hannibal sighed, eyes hooded as he considered the elegant hand before him, the lip those fingers pressed to, pushing it out of shape. He could smell the panic on Will, now, that cloying thing that so rarely overcame this boy; only when he had disappointed, only when he had displeased… he took Will’s hand and kissed his knuckles, turned his cheek against them. It thrilled him that Will did not pull away, that he did not curl up on himself and sob, begging Hannibal to let him go.

“I will keep my promise. To elevate you above the dregs of humanity, build you anew. To guide, perhaps, in bringing your thoughts into actions.”

Will licked his bottom lip between his teeth and released it with a hum, eyes on Hannibal. He drew his foot up higher, until he was holding Hannibal pinned, effectively, between the chair and himself.

“Nothing comes without a price,” Will replied, tilting his head back in consideration, eyes narrowed as he watched Hannibal, still, flexed his fingers in the doctor’s hold. He smiled when Hannibal shook his head.

“That would be against the laws of nature.”

“We can’t go breaking more of those,” Will purred, pleased. He felt suddenly drunk, as though his body was not his own, and floating. The doctor sat before him, knelt as though in prayer, and offered to help Will take revenge on those who had wronged him, for the price of his flesh. Flesh that he would consume, flesh that would nourish him and bring him pleasure, flesh that he would replace with intricate inventions that weren’t human at all. He swallowed, nervous, curious, excited.

“A hand,” he offered, squeezing Hannibal’s with his own where he held it. “For the hand that brutalized me.”

“A hand,” Hannibal agreed, drawing his thumb over Will’s knuckles again. “That you will watch me prepare, and consume with me. Once the hand that brutalized you has been reciprocated tenfold.”

Will’s breath caught. He had expected Hannibal to ask him to watch, to be present for the preparation of his limb to a meal. But to participate… no longer just a bystander, but someone actively involved in the consumption of human flesh… it made him ill, just the thought of it. It made him panic.

He had not panicked at the thought of murder.

Will drew his hand back, fingers catching against Hannibal’s to bring him closer too, kissing him when he was near enough. Will opened up his body to Hannibal, arms draping over his shoulders, foot sliding down to hook behind his thigh and the doctor straightened up and moved to kneel over Will, pressing him into the plush chair.

When Hannibal kissed him, Will imagined blood on his lips, sinews between his teeth; moved his tongue to find them to taste, laughing when he felt nothing. Hannibal purred against him, forcing Will deeper into the chair as he framed him in it, one knee up to keep Will spread for him, his other leg stretched alongside Will’s prosthetic to balance himself.

“Is that a deal, Will?” Hannibal asked him, watching Will gaze up at him from under his curls, cheeks pink, lips teeth-worried and dark. He curled one hand over the arm of the chair, the other he set to the back of it, his forehead resting atop, as he waited for his answer.

For a while, Will just looked. Looked up at the monster he lived with, the monster he loved, to his very bones. 

He should have been afraid. He wasn’t.

He should have been disgusted. He couldn’t be.

Hannibal worked with beauty, never ugliness. The things he loved, the things he did, the things he made, were works of art. Will was that to him. How could he hate his creator?

“Show me,” he asked, “show me how you’d start.” he reached his left hand out, palm up and welcoming. Hannibal’s expression was one of predatory pleasure. He kept his hand against the arm of the chair as Will curled his knee against it, and leaned back to take Will’s offering with his other.

“The skin, first,” he said, drawing his thumb over the veins at Will’s wrist, before turning it and kissing the back. “Above the carpus. I would peel it back, reveal the muscles beneath, the delicate carpal bones…”

Will shivered, eyes unblinking as Hannibal caressed his limb as though in worship. Behind his eyes, the processes he was describing, the graphic detail of the amputation he would perform.

“Dedicated things, those bones,” Hannibal continued softly. “They fit together perfectly, not a breath of space between. It would be cruel to separate them - I would cut above. Higher. Where the ulna and the radius begin.”

Thumb and forefinger encircled Will’s elegant wrist, moving to where Hannibal planned his dissection and pressing softly.

“Just there,” he breathed, eyes up to catch Will’s and finding them bright, pupils blown with arousal as he listened. “A careful cut, to separate ligament and sinew, nerves and fragile capillaries.”

Will swallowed, turning his hand in Hannibal’s hold, bringing his other down between his legs to press against his cock that was tenting his underwear. He groaned, soft and needy, as Hannibal’s other hand turned to palm the skin just behind Will’s knee, thumb finding that point or pressure that made Will spread his legs wider.

“It will still be warm,” Hannibal told him. “Your hand. For several moments after. As though alive, still, fingers spread and reaching -”

“Oh,” Will bit his lip, pressed the heel of his hand down against himself and rolled his hips up.

“The meat will be tender,” he added, letting Will’s hand free and moving his own to cover the one that stroked between Will’s legs eagerly, guiding him to press harder. “Supple and sweet. It will melt in your mouth as you bite...”

“Oh God,” Will whimpered, eyes glazed and half closed as he imagined. He felt bile creep up his throat at the thought and stroked himself harder, masking the nausea with pleasure, hiding the horror with desperate arousal. He freed his hand from beneath Hannibal’s and set his palms to his thighs, holding himself open as Hannibal stroked him up, teased the head through the soft cotton of his bloomers.

“Hannibal -”

“I know that once I’ve tasted you, I will be sated by nothing else.” Hannibal’s voice was rough, now, low and heavy. He leaned nearer to draw in the smell of Will’s arousal, the cloying panic underneath. It was intoxicating. He was growing drunk from it.

“Hannibal please -”

“Yes,”

Their mouths met hard, a fight of lips and teeth that Will yielded quickly, moaning as Hannibal devoured him. He brought a hand up - his left, deliberately his left - and caressed Hannibal’s cheek, drew fingertips over the stubble that had started to come through, rough like sandpaper against his fingers. He would touch everything. He would touch anything, for as long as he had these fingers to feel with. He would commit the sensations to memory as best he could.

“Show me,” Will whimpered, eyes closed, chin raised in ecstasy. “Show me the depths of man’s inhumanity to man. Let me taste it, let me -”

“ _ Yes _ ,”

Will shuddered, his orgasm singing through his bones, stealing his breath as Hannibal stroked him through it, whispering praise and worship over Will’s cheek, in languages known to him and not. Will felt enlightened. He felt alive.

He blindly reached for Hannibal’s vest and caught it, dragging him demandingly to his lips again and kissed Hannibal with the fervor of youthful obsession; kissed him deep and bit down hard enough to draw blood when Hannibal tried to pull away. Will was smiling when he did, teeth reddened just a little as he looked at the doctor and tilted his head.

“A pact made in blood cannot be broken,” Will offered. “You have a deal, Hannibal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will is a clever, clever boy... ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He goaded two sailors well into their cups into a game of cards, won two hands, lost a third, and drank their reeking alcohol with them until his throat constricted against it. Will stumbled home at an unconscionable hour, and woke Hannibal with a sloppy mouth against his cock. The fucking he got felt like a beating, and Will ached with it late into the morning, long after Hannibal had kissed his wayward boy’s messy curls and gone to work._
> 
> Puppy goes hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not end how I planned it _at all_, but Hannibal decided to actually be an alienist for a change and derailed the entire idea XD

It had been many months since Hannibal had kept Will confined to the house. He was, more often than not, allowed to venture forth into London on his own, should he wish a change of scenery or to take in the air. Hannibal had allotted an allowance for Will, money to comfortably get him through town, feed him, clothe him, should he wish to add to his wardrobe.

Will rarely spent it.

He rarely spent money at all, in fact, if he could help it. Still unused to that privilege after so many years without. Where he could, he walked, he would eat before departing and dine upon returning, and he had many beautiful things that Hannibal had gifted him.

Will’s ventures rarely ran to evening. Rarer still, to nighttime. But with their new arrangement, with the deal made between them, Will took the chance to insinuate himself back into  _ his  _ London. He walked the streets he’d once worked, coins plentiful and ready for needy boys. He never bought them. He merely offered a token in exchange for information and went about his way.

He didn’t see any familiar faces.

He went to the old mollyhouse as well, surprised to find it had attempted to elevate itself, advertising similar wares to a more select clientele. Some boys he recognized, here. They didn’t recognize him. Some johns he recognized also, but dressed as he was, poised as he was, they didn’t look at him as they had once. It felt almost like a game to Will, pretending to be someone else in a part of the world where his entire self was built.

He had one drink, and left.

The next night, Will returned to haunts of another nature. Taverns, inns, the docks along the river. If he were honest, he couldn’t remember where the man had found him, just that he had, and had made it a point to find Will again after. Will breathed easily by the river, eyes not squinted against the stench; it was as familiar to him as his own body, welcomed him with open arms.

He goaded two sailors well into their cups into a game of cards, won two hands, lost a third, and drank their reeking alcohol with them until his throat constricted against it. Will stumbled home at an unconscionable hour, and woke Hannibal with a sloppy mouth against his cock. The fucking he got felt like a beating, and Will ached with it late into the morning, long after Hannibal had kissed his wayward boy’s messy curls and gone to work.

Will didn’t go to his makeshift barre until the late afternoon, watching London through the window as he did.

The next night, and the next, Will stayed out til morning. Canvassing old familiar paths, trading coins for drink or powder. He felt invincible here. A beautiful thing untouchable in the filth of the city he’d been birthed from. It was his manner, he supposed. He walked about like a local, rather than a man of standing, as he now dressed. He knew how to cast a look at petty thieves to discourage their attempts, how to slip into the shadow at the first sign of police.

He felt almost drunk with power, in the gutters, carrying that pride home with him like a cloak.

One night, he saw him, purchasing a pasty on a corner where a streetlight was broken. He knew that gait, that posture, remembered well the expression on his face when he’d approach Will on the streets, remembered exactly the smile he gave when Will had agreed to go with him to the club for a pound.

He felt ill. Unable to move, unable to do anything but turn his head to hide his silhouette should the man look his way. He didn’t. But Will knew, now, where to wait for him. He knew, now, where the trap would be set.

But his nerves sung, even when the man was out of sight, his hands trembled. He ached for the familiar, for the wanton and depraved, to ground his mind back into himself. Will didn’t care who it was he found. He was taller, that was all he remembered. Will went to his knees for him, sucking an unfamiliar cock for the first time in  _ months _ and hating the odor, the taste, the sensation of it. He still swallowed. He still begged when the man told him to, taking the depraved things he was called and cloaking himself in them like armour. 

Will threw up on the way home.

He locked himself in the bathroom before Hannibal could ask after him and brushed his teeth over and over until he tasted nothing but mint and iron.

He had hoped to climb into bed without incident, a scolding, perhaps, for being out so late again but nothing more. But when he walked into Hannibal’s wide chest upon leaving the bathroom he knew that wouldn’t happen.

“Hannibal.”

“You’ve been busy,” the doctor replied, voice quiet despite the menace behind it that drew like a screech down Will’s back. “You’ve not spent a night in my bed going on a week, now, have you grown bored in your comforts?”

Will shook his head. He hadn’t truly. His old life called to him in a way a nostalgic thought might; softening the edges and dulling the sounds. Returning to ‘his’ London had made Will feel powerful, but not aching to return to the boy he was in it. He was a tourist, now, in his own memories, night after night.

“No,” Will told him, eyes up briefly before looking away. “I’ve been looking -”

“Looking,” Hannibal repeated, bringing a hand up to tuck a stray curl behind Will’s ear. “Seeing. Being seen.”

“I found him.”

“Did you?” Hannibal’s tone had grown heavy with implication, and Will forced himself not to tremble at the sound of it. He swallowed as Hannibal’s fingers continued to caress his face,  _ feeling _ the wrath beneath that ached to break free. Hannibal rarely was cruel with Will. He was when he needed to be, when Will could be better and should have been.

He should have been tonight. He should have just come home. He should have -

“I know where to lure,” Will continued softly. “I know what to say to get him close, for us to get him here.”

“A fisherman, and not a hunter,” Hannibal pointed out gently, lifting a brow when Will looked askance. He didn’t grab Will’s hair so much as the hand he rested in it slowly curled into a fist harsh enough to pull some follicles from his scalp. It took just a turn of his hand to have Will bend nearer, eyes up and brows drawn, his guilt palpable on his face if Hannibal hadn’t smelled it on him the moment he came through the door.

“Is that how you lured him tonight, filthy boy?” Hannibal asked, watching Will try to shake his head. “Took to your knees and offered your throat as you had so often before?”

“No! No, it’s not - he didn’t see me -”

“So to another, then,” Hannibal reasoned, bringing his hand nearer, higher, to have Will pressed to his chest helplessly, his small hands clutching at Hannibal’s robe. “You went to another to sate your lust for setting the trap. To another as unworthy of you as that man is, as they all are.”

“I’m sorry,” Will whispered, wincing as Hannibal pulled him up higher, forcing Will to stand on his toes as he clung on.

“Did he fuck you?”

“No!” Will’s eyes were wide, earnest, the disgust within their depths enough for Hannibal to take the admission as true. It hardly soothed his anger for knowing his boy,  _ his boy _ , took someone into his mouth for pleasure.

And it had been, Will was hard, now, pressed to Hannibal’s thigh.

Perhaps as a response to Hannibal’s words, to his harshness, now, rather than a remnant of Will’s folly of an evening. But no matter. Any excuse would do.

“And how can you expect me to,” Hannibal asked him, voice a terrifyingly soft juxtaposition to the way he held Will up. “Knowing how quickly you embrace the gutters when you get near them again, how eagerly you become the dirty thing you were before I found you.”

“I’m sorry,” Will tried again, knowing full well how useless those words were to Hannibal, how only actions could atone for Will’s misstep. “Let me show you, Hannibal, please - I brought my pleasure to you, only to you, I would give it to no other.”

“Had you, I would not have let you into the house,” Hannibal replied icily, but his grip on Will’s hair eased, just a little. He drew his other hand down Will’s spine, back up again to cup the back of his head. “Perhaps panic drove you to old habits,” he mused, keeping his expression hidden from the boy who clung to him. “Perhaps seeing the man who had brought you such horrors returned you to a state of mind you could not escape. That boy, once again, on the streets and desperate.”

Will swallowed, curled his fingers in Hannibal’s robe a little harder. It was a surprisingly accurate reading, one that hadn’t occurred to Will in his fear, in the moment he’d seen the man he knew he was going to kill. He turned almost childishly into Hannibal’s chest.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Perhaps.”

Hannibal moved Will away just far enough to see him, soothing down the curls he’d mangled with his grip. His ire had shifted, from wanting to put Will in his place to wanting to return him to himself. Extraordinary boy. He felt too keenly and suffered too purely, and that suffering, too, Hannibal wanted all for himself.

“Come to bed,” he said instead, surprising both himself and the boy he held. “You will not take your pleasure, nor give me mine. Rest. We will speak further in the morning.”

Will blinked but nodded, feeling his exhaustion shroud him now that Hannibal’s ire had passed him like a wave. He remained against Hannibal a moment more before gently extricating himself to undress. He took his time with his leg, unlacing the delicate corsetry that held it bound to his thigh. When he turned to Hannibal, he did not touch him, just reached out in the space between their bodies in an offering of peace.

And so they slept.

“Where did you go,” Hannibal asked Will over coffee the next morning. “In your mind, where did you go when you saw him?”

Will tugged the collar of his shirt nervously and considered the cup in front of him. He didn’t dare lift the saucer; his hands were shaking too much. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it the night before, and he certainly wasn’t feeling confident about the morning, but he was curious why Hannibal’s diagnosis and Will’s confirmation of it had won him mercy when ire had been on the horizon.

“Back to the club,” Will replied softly. “To the night he brought me there and -” he took a steadying breath. “I felt just as weak, just as angry. It was as though the marks he’d made upon me then were coming through against my skin once more.”

“It is not uncommon for those surviving trauma to regress when they see their tormentor. The only association you have with the man is pain and humiliation. Suffering. You felt powerless?”

Will nodded, throat too tight to speak. It was enough for Hannibal.

“Your mind transported you, for your own safety, to the boy you were back then. To a form it knew could withstand that hurt once more, because you already had once.”

“But I’m stronger than that now,” Will argued, finally taking up his cup, wincing at the bitterness of the drink. He reached for sugar. “I know my body and my mind, why couldn’t I face him? He didn’t even look my way.”

“The mind has endless depths to mine for information, Will,” Hannibal replied. “I can only tell you what I have learned through my own research and following that of my colleagues’. That such regressions are common, and temporary. Do you feel similarly helpless now?”

Will shook his head, cheeks hot. “I feel angry for showing that weakness.”

“The mind is like the body in that it can be trained,” Hannibal explained further. “If you did not go to the barre every morning, did not go through your stretches and your routines, if you let your muscles grow stiff from laziness, you would not be able to dance, is that not so?”

Will had to agree, though he still didn’t know where the conversation was going.

“You have done admirably your entire life, surviving circumstances few people ever face. Now, you have the power to use that survival to your advantage, to mine strength from it.”

Will felt his shoulders straighten, felt his heart beat faster. “How?”

Hannibal just smiled.

When Will entered the filthy streets of London that evening, he was wrapped in one of Hannibal’s coats. Beneath, he wore nought but bloomers and blush, the ink Hannibal had extended up his leg, and kohl around his eyes.

He moved with purpose, strides confident and long that took him to that same corner that the night before had cracked the stubborn walls of his mind and almost ruined him. He waited as he had then, close enough to recognize the man, far enough to not be seen first. Will breathed in the smell of Hannibal from his coat as he waited, running his instructions through his mind like a mantra.

_ Lure him. _

_ Tempt him. _

_ Drug him. _

_ Take from him what he owes, and then take the rest. _

It was late when the man appeared, and by that point Will’s heart was beating a march behind his ears. He felt that panic once more, threatening to drown him back into the boy he was no longer, threatening to take his strength. He felt it, and strode through it, snapping the gossamer strands of it that clung to him as he approached his target.

“Tuppence for a suck,” Will offered, finding his smile came easily when those eyes met his again. The man blinked, uncertain, before recognition raised his brows and warmed his eyes.

“Will. You  _ have _ grown pretty.”

Will ducked his head, demure, eyes up from beneath his fringe to tempt the man nearer. He stepped back, his charm tugging the man a step nearer in answer.

“I got lucky,” he admitted. “A nice man found me, but he wasn’t nice for long.”

“Niceness is for nice boys,” the man replied, that tone dripping with lust that he’d used on Will the night he’d split his skin and beat him blue. “Have you been bad, Will?”

A bite to his lip, another turn of his cheek against the oversized coat and Will nodded. He worked open the button holding the coat closed and flashed a peek of flesh and satin beneath. Enough for a tease, enough of a hint to have the man step nearer still.

“Naughty thing.”

“Really naughty,” Will agreed, stepping back further and further, the man so hypnotized by Will’s form, his words, his put-on childishness he didn’t notice the alley that swallowed them whole. “I ran away from the club, I disobeyed the nice man, and now I’m cold and hungry and all alone.”

The man’s lip twitched in animalistic fury. Will knew he wanted to get his hands on him again, to bend Will over and fuck him raw, to beat him with hands and belt and crop, to make him cry.

Will wouldn’t cry. Not this time.

He backed himself up against a wall and gasped when the other stepped nearer, shoving into Will’s space, immediately dropping a hand to fondle Will through his bloomers, rough and uncaring for Will’s pleasure.

“Naughty boys get punished,” he growled, and Will wriggled as though to get away.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll punish you real good,” he promised. “I’ll beat your ass bloody, fill you up, make you all pretty and obedient again.”

“Will you, sir?” Will asked, eyes wide, innocent, pure. When the man wrapped a hand around his throat, leaned in to shove his lips to Will’s, Will slipped the delicate syringe Hannibal had given him from the coat pocket and flicked the cap away with his thumb. He whimpered into the kiss, allowed his body to go lax, allowed the man to feel his own power over Will’s powerlessness, and only then did he bury the needle in his neck, pushing down the plunger, tossing it away with a bright tinkling sound when the man slapped against the pain in his neck.

“What the fuck?”

“The bugs are ravenous here,” Will replied, biting his lip, seeing immediately how quickly the drug dulled those eyes, how heavy the man’s limbs became as he first shoved against Will, then away from him, staggering to the opposite wall and slipping in one of the many sewage puddles that lined the alley. Will stepped closer to him, coat hanging open and loose about his body as he did.

He stood between the man’s spread legs, stood above him as once he had been stood over, and crouched with a predator’s grace.

“So are the boys,” Will added, lips pursed as though in apology, as though in genuine distress as the man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he lost consciousness. Lax and vulnerable with an avenging angel over his form.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He had never been violent by nature._
> 
> _But he was being nurtured that way._
> 
> SERIOUS warnings for this one loves, check the notes at the start for them, and the notes at the end of a bloodless summary if you just can't read the squick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER**: graphic torture, graphic gore, humiliation, whipping, flaying, machine fucking, rape, brutality, cruelty, flesh carving, lots and lots and lots of blood.
> 
> None of these apply to Will, he's the one responsible. He's taking revenge on [what happened to him here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860232/chapters/49652693).

Will had never been violent by nature.

When he had been offered a place at the ballet school, he had been a shy and tiny thing, aiming to please and get himself into the good graces of his tutors and fellow students. He had succeeded with the first, but not the second.

The bullying from his peers had been brutal and unending once it started. It seemed that there was nothing Will could do to divert their attention over to another, or away from violence in general. The boys in particular had seemed adamant that Will had to pay for being so talented - like it was somehow his fault that their lack of practice led to their lack of technical skill.

They had accused Will of being a witch, of sleeping with the devil for his talent, of sleeping with the tutors for favor, of being secretly rich and titled, and at the school to take away opportunities from hard-working poor boys like them.

But in truth, Will just had an almost painful need to seek approval. 

It made him unwell to think that someone did not like him - he worked hard to earn the praise of the dance instructors. He tried to help the boys in his group with their footwork but found that he was rudely rebuffed every time.

They called him names. They pulled his hair. They urinated in his bed and on his clothes so he couldn’t sleep or dress for class.

They pushed him in front of a carriage that severed his foot from the rest of him, that shattered his future as surely as the tiny bones beneath his skin, that turned him into the helpless thing they had sought to make him with their petty cruelties.

That, in the end, seemed to satisfy them.

Will never saw them again after that day, but he never forgot. Those boys were the first to ever harden the softness of Will’s heart.

On the streets after, Will had had many a bad john. Some men, he understood, bought boys just to torment them for their own sexual gratification. He had serviced men alone and in groups. He had serviced men with other boys and been forced to hurt them on the client’s behalf. He had done what he needed to do to survive, but still Will did not turn to violence.

He had sustained a broken nose. Bruised ribs. Bloodied teeth. Black eyes. He had endured limping from pain, the awkward stretch of muscles, the cramping of tied down limbs. He had endured, and he had not turned to violence.

Then someone offered him a pound and took him to Hellfire.

Where everything was cold and stone, leather and wood, blood and sweat and semen. Where pain was pleasure if you wanted pleasure at all. Where Will cut his teeth on tambourines and harp strings, thick cocks between his lips and soft hands between his thighs. Grapes, and wine, and bread, and milk, and honey, and blood, and smoke, and powder, and skin, and bone, and silver, and gold, and silk, and satin, and cold, hard, waking.

“Hi,” that voice, a familiar young and lovely voice.

Awake.

With grit in his teeth that turned his tongue to sandpaper, Enyo woke slowly. Whatever drug had cooled his blood was still thick in his system, short circuiting his usually quick mind to a sluggish standstill. He had no idea where he was, had no memory of anything beyond pressing himself to a welcoming skinny body in a filthy alley, touching and pinching and scratching him near.

Now, he only felt cold against his chest and stone against his bare feet.

He tried to clear his throat and found it only brought on a series of hacking wheezes as his body tried to right itself back to equilibrium. He wasn’t just cold, Enyo realized, he was  _ freezing _ . His hands clenched uselessly where they were spread, tied with rough ropes out to his sides like a martyr stretched for the cross. He was bent, rather than lying flat, and though his feet were free there was little for them to use to lever himself to standing. 

Dust between his toes, that minor irritation the only thing he could feel with how numb his extremities were.

He wondered if he was in a dungeon.

He wondered if he was in the goddamn morgue.

His breath didn’t unfurl in steam before him, and for a panicked second Enyo wondered if he was dead.

But his heart was beating, sharp staccato against whatever surface he was spread on, and that was enough to push his weak form to an even weaker struggle; base instincts driving him animal mind to free itself, whatever the cost.

“You’ve just woken up, give yourself some time.” that voice again. And Enyo looked up at the boy standing over him. His feet had been just out of range of his line of sight, lingering in the shadows until he stepped forward; one foot elegant and pale, human, with indigo lines and patterns inked into the skin. The other…  _ other _ . Enyo blinked and looked away. The boy was almost entirely bare, dressed as he had been on the street and alley but without the coat over his shoulders this time. He looked taller.

“You little bitch -”

“No,” Will replied, shaking his head almost sadly. “Not here. And not today. And not ever again.”

“What have you done to me?”

“Nothing,” Will shrugged. “Not yet. You followed me, I didn’t do anything at all.”

“Listen here you little whore, do you have any idea who I am?”

“You’re the man who bought me for a pound that you never paid me,” Will replied softly, “washed me clean and tied me up.”

“You’re a  _ whore _ .”

“I was,” Will agreed. “But I didn’t deserve what you did to me.”

Enyo scoffed. “The things I  _ did with you _ . You  _ begged me _ for more. You stayed at the club to be pampered and preened over despite being crippled and useless!”

Something in Will’s face shifted, as though a shadow passed over, a reflection of the boy he was, with drawn brows and pursed lips and tears on his face. Then he blinked. He stepped back and the man heard the strange metallic click he hadn’t noticed on the street. Eyes down, and his face contorted into a mask of disgust when he saw Will’s leg again.

Will didn’t give him the response he wanted. He just stepped away further, walking around behind Enyo where he couldn’t see him.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you, actually,” Will added, his voice losing its echo in the cavernous space around them. “For opening my eyes to my own potential, that day when you left me at Hellfire.”

The man was about to reply, about to call Will all manner of things, threaten him, challenge him, but his voice was stolen by the first strike of the crop against his skin. Sharp and cruel and bright.

“What -”

Another, just as burning, like acid to skin.

“How  _ dare you _ -”

“I’m giving you what you gave me,” Will replied from behind him. “Pain and the enlightenment that comes with it.”

“You  _ filthy _ little -”

Will wasn’t listening, he didn’t care. His hand came down again and again, more and more force with each blow until he was raising welts not just lines over the man’s ass and thighs. 

There had been mirrors, when this man had been torturing Will, so Will could see the pain he was taking, the blood that would slip down his thighs before he was even fucked, so he could see himself cry. He landed another blow and puffed a breath up against the curls that had fallen into his face. When he returned to Enyo’s line of sight, he ignored the bargaining, the curses, he merely yanked down the heavy cloth that had been covering a mirror before returning to his place behind the man once more.

“Hey,  _ hey _ !” Enyo’s voice felt too loud to his own ears, too high to be his own. But he hurt, he fucking hurt and he had to make this kid  _ stop _ . “Kid - Will - listen to me, just listen -”

Will caught his eyes reflected in the glass and tilted his head. “Eyes up. I’d like you to watch this.”

He remembered, he did. He’d taken Will from the street before, had used his mouth, had used that sweet little ass of his. The boy was always so obedient, always willing, and so fucking pretty. How could Enyo resist bringing such a thing to Hellfire? How could he be blamed for wanting that beauty desecrated properly? So he’d taken Will to the club, he’d tied him down, he’d whipped him bloody until the beautiful boy was weeping and begging for him to stop. And he’d spread his legs and fucked him deep and left him dripping, and when he returned for more, the boy’s eyes had changed.

He’d broken him.

He’d shattered that veneer of innocence for good.

It had been the hottest thing Enyo had ever seen.

But now the basement echoed with curses and cries, starting as growls and evolving quickly to high keening sounds of agony. His own cries, Enyo’s. Mirroring in pitch and volume the very ones he’d pulled from Will months and months and months ago when he took his pleasure of him.

Hannibal wasn’t near enough to see either of them, he didn’t need to be. He had promised Will only to be close, should he need him, but not to interfere with his brand of justice. But he caught the scent on the air, beneath the cloying panic, the sharp iron of blood and pain, beneath it all he could smell Will’s joy in this. Not the joy he beheld when Will saw something that surprised or delighted him, not the joy that came through his smile when he met Hannibal at the door or pulled him to bed. No, this was of a darker sort, this was satisfaction, this was a return of power long ago released without hope of getting it back.

His boy was evolving, and Hannibal’s pride threatened to overwhelm him.

He took just a step nearer, still cloaked in shadow but now close enough to look properly, and took in the scene.

Will was shaking, knuckles white around the handle of the crop, other hand up to wipe some blood from the side of his face. Before him, the man was bleeding, stripes cut cruel by the implement the boy held seeping fluid down his legs. He’d stopped cursing, but the sounds he made now were pitiful things. Will’s chest rose and fell quickly as he caught his breath, drops of blood like freckles over his stomach and thighs.

Almost casually, he tossed the crop aside, turning to take the steps necessary to pick up something else.

“Will -” Enyo’s voice was rasping, harsher even than when he’d woken. “Will, please, I remember, I know what I did, I’m sorry, I’m sorry -”

“Does it hurt?” Will asked, his own voice soft, almost gentle, damn near angelic. He let his fingers skim delicately over the tools available to him before selecting a paddle, the same paddle Hannibal had made Will punish himself with all those months ago. A hefty and horrid thing.

“Yes! Goddammit,  _ yes _ it hurts!”

“Good,” Will replied, walking up to stand behind Enyo again. “I want it to. I want you to hurt for me. I want you to cry and beg and plead for me,” Enyo’s own words, all those months ago, falling to his own skin now like ashes from a cigar, still burning. His wild eyes tracked the boy’s movements behind him. “And I will hit you all the harder for it.”

“Will,” he tried, licking his lips as those blue eyes just watched him, blinked his girlish lashes as though nothing were the matter. “Will, please -”

The paddle had been the worst, for Will. The dull ache it pushed through his entire being stole his breath and fell on him so hard he was certain it broke bone. He’d suffered that with his most childish tears, his most ardent pleading as the man had taken his pleasure in hurting him beyond his limits.

Now, he felt the pain ricochet up his arm and to his shoulder with every blow, pulling a wince from Will as he brought his arm back again for another. It came with numbness, this kind of pain. First painful, then welcome. And with every sharp slap of the wood against bleeding skin, Will felt his own countenance numb to this. 

No longer the boy scared and cowering from memories, no longer the boy wetting the bed in his panic, remembering this very moment in his dreams. He wasn’t that boy anymore. He was the man behind him. He wasn’t the sobbing, weak little thing. He was someone who knew his worth, who would take his pound to the grave with him. Or better yet, he would take his pound in flesh, rather than currency.

The paddle dropped with a hollow clatter to the ground and Will set his hands to his knees, catching his breath. Tears streamed from his eyes, mingling with the sweat on his lip, painting salty his parted lips before dripping to the floor between his feet. There it met blood. Will stumbled back and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

He had never been violent by nature.

But he was being nurtured that way.

Enyo was barely conscious now, the aches and blood the least of his worries because he couldn’t feel the rest of his body either. He couldn’t curl his toes, even when he thought about nothing else. He couldn’t fist his hands, even when he tried. He looked at the bottom frame of the mirror through tear-smeared eyes and wished he could die.

But Will hadn’t died.

Not that night, not the night after, when another man had claimed his layer of skin from Will’s thighs, not the night after that when Will curled in on himself and wept so loudly his throat felt torn, and another boy held him close and whispered that he need only sleep, that it would be better in the morning. Will hadn’t died later, when men had bought him again. He hadn’t died when his purchase was forbidden, and his body was looked at with awe. He hadn’t died when Hannibal had found him, and claimed him, and brought him home.

No.

He hadn’t died. 

He’d merely shed a dead snakeskin, had merely crawled free from a chrysalis shell and evolved to something more.

Something other.

_ More than a man _ .

The thought of fucking the man who’d so cruelly fucked him made Will retch. He pressed his arms against a cold wall and leaned his forehead to the rough surface and swallowed down air. This was his revenge. His rebirth. He couldn’t wither now, he couldn’t allow his sweeter nature to take control from what had been growing and building within Will since the moment that mask was laid upon his eyes.

He turned to shove his shoulders to the stone instead and knocked his head softly back against it, eyes up and lip between his teeth. He could see Hannibal from the corner of his eye, standing by, doing nothing, saying less. He watched Will with the same eyes that had tracked his movements during Bacchanalia. He watched Will the way he looked at him when he made love to Will in the early hours of the morning.

Like Will was worthy.

Like he was beautiful.

Will flexed his fingers, turned his left wrist and fisted his hand. The hand he owed for this chance at becoming. The hand he had willingly given for it.

Without a word, without a look at Hannibal, Will stepped from the wall again, for a moment moving deeper into the basement to retrieve one of Hannibal’s machines. No sound in the space but patchy breathing, the slow slick drip of blood to the floor, and the click of Will’s foot as he returned, hauling with him a heavy device he set to another worktable.

Enyo watched through double vision. Wires and cogs and coils. A metal arm with a grip. A wheel. Several wheels. His head lolled between his shoulders, chin dropping to the table he’d been bound to, no longer cold, but hotter than hot against his tortured flesh. He wanted to die and he couldn’t, not until this horrid boy let him go. How did he even find him? Why did he even look? Enyo hadn’t touched Will since he’d left him at the club, convinced he’d used him up and the boy was destined for no more than to be a sacrifice at Bacchanalia. He hadn’t bothered him. He’d let him thrive.

Enyo didn’t register what it meant that Will was kicking his legs apart. He didn’t register what was pressing stiff between his legs. He knew nothing but the agony that shot like lightning through his body, up his spine, startling every nerve to electric attention. It shifted, whatever it was, fast and brutal, in and out, slapping slick against the flesh of his ass. He caught a glimpse of Will behind him, his blue eyes bright and face tear-streaked as he looked on. He watched as Will’s expression eased from pain to serenity. And then his eyes rolled back and he couldn’t watch anything at all.

“Hey,” that voice again, soft and childish. Enyo hoped he was in hell, because it meant that beast of a child was with him there.

The slap was unexpected but it did the trick to wake him up to his reality again. He was still on the table. He was still shaking. He felt sick. Everywhere he looked was blood, blood, blood. Everywhere except the pale body of Will, crouched before him, cool fingers holding his chin still.

“Wake up, now. You’ve earned your pound.”

“Fuck you.”

Will grinned, eyes dancing with childish glee, and shook his head. “Not today,” he said. And then he sat up and kissed him, full on the mouth, tongue seeking between Enyo’s unresisting lips to taste the anguish he dripped with. Enyo could barely gather himself enough to understand what was happening before it wasn’t anymore.

Will sat back, crouched in the mess of gore on his delicate little foot and that monstrous limb, and fiddled with the hem of his bloomers almost innocently.

“I was going to give you a pound and send you on your way,” he said quietly. “But I figured, a man of your means, you can afford to give a pound instead. You never did pay me. Would you give me a pound, sir?” Will’s voice pitched to that high and lovely thing Enyo had once dreamed about with his hand between his legs. “Would you give me a pound for your freedom?”

“Yes,” he rasped, his voice barely louder than a breath. “Yes, take it, take all of it.”

Will shook his head with another of those strange sad smiles. “No, sir, just a pound will do. I’ve taken the rest.”

When he stood, Enyo didn’t try to lift his head to follow his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t hold himself up. He could barely breathe. He drew in ragged breaths and pushed them out again, over and over. Let the kid take his goddamn pound. Let him take a goddamn hundred for all he cared. As long as he could get out of his hell and back to his civilized life.

But Will didn’t move to get his wallet. He didn’t bend to work free the bindings that held Enyo down. Instead, he returned to the table that had given him the crop and the paddle, and took from it one of Hannibal’s knives. It felt heavy, foreign, something boys like him, linen-limbed and lovely, should never hold. Will let it catch the light for a moment, meditated on the patterns it made when he let his eyes go out of focus, and only then returned to the table.

He carved from the thigh, the thickest part of the man he could reach, and he did it clean. One slice through the gluteus medius, down to the vastus lateralis, across to sever the biceps femoris and semitendinosus, back up through the gracilis, the adductor magnus, the gluteus maximus.

Will grasped the meat and tossed it with a slap to the table, the mass landing just beneath Enyo’s arm, though the man wasn’t awake to see it. Wouldn’t wake up again. It hardly mattered, really, Will finally got the pound he was owed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloodless summary: Will finds the man who had taken him to Hellfire in the first place, and goes eye-for-an-eye on that motherfucker. He beats and rapes him and takes a pound of flesh as payment (killing the guy). Hannibal stands by and watches in this one, this is entirely Will's becoming.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will stood over him like a conquering hero, eyes bright and wide and oh-so-innocent. He brought a hand to his mouth absently, chewing on the side of his thumbnail as he always did, leaving a smear of blood in its wake when he dropped his hands to his sides instead._
> 
> _He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his bloomers and bent over slowly, slipping them down his thighs and over his knees, past his ankles. He stepped out of them and gently kicked them aside, the silk immediately blackening with blood where it landed. Will didn’t care. He had more. Hannibal had gifted him so many beautiful things, and none so beautiful as the freedom to take back power that had been stolen from him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague warnings for this chapter, lovelies: gore, fucking in gore, inappropriate use of blood as lube, very unhygienic, don't do this.

Hannibal watched.

He watched the way Will’s body was absolutely still but for the tremors that ran through him once in a while, shuddering under his skin. He held the knife in loose fingers, blood dripping from the sharp point in thick, slow dollops to the mess on the floor. 

After a moment, Will seemed to blink himself out of whatever stupor he’d fallen into and he let the weapon drop, holding his arm out almost delicately to avoid it landing on his bare foot.

The clatter sliced through the silence of the basement, and Hannibal took it as his cue to step nearer. 

The closer he got, the faster Will’s breathing became. He could sense him, that predator in the shadows, he honed in on Hannibal’s movements, allowed all his senses to welcome him in; by smell and hearing and his reflection in the mirror, by the way he reached out and Will’s skin prickled with anticipation, the tiny hairs on his arms tickling Hannibal’s palm. By taste, when Will turned quickly and spread bloody handprints over Hannibal’s face and pressed their lips together in a desperate, hungry kiss.

Will’s entire body was vibrating, adrenaline and panic and anger and regret and arousal and victory pulsing through him so quickly he could barely keep up, could barely summon the air needed to keep his heart pumping. His fingers dug into Hannibal where he held him, his teeth sharp in a brief snap against Hannibal’s lip, just enough to draw blood that Will immediately leaned in to suck away.

Hannibal let him claw, let the monster dig its way out of his beautiful boy and sharpen its teeth against him. He held Will when his tugging became struggling, he wrapped his arms around him and ducked Will’s head down against his chest as his boy’s rough breathing turned to hiccups turned to wet helpless sobs. He held Will as he cried, such innocent, childish tears that tasted so sweet against Hannibal’s lips when he kissed them from Will’s cheeks.

Still so new to his own power.

Still so scared of what it could become, what it could turn him into.

Hannibal caught Will’s chin and tilted his head to kiss him again, softer this time, adoring, as he set his palm to the side of Will’s face and smeared the droplets of blood that had landed there. Will whimpered, eyes closing as his mouth opened to this, fingers turning softly in the front of Hannibal’s shirt, ruined now with blood and filth.

“Extraordinary thing,” Hannibal praised, breathless. “Remarkable boy, look at you.”

Will shivered, eyes still closed as he let Hannibal look instead, as he let Hannibal take him in, him and the mess he had made, the man he had killed.

The first of many who owed Will a pound or two.

His body was still shaking with the aftershocks of realization and power. He still couldn’t believe that his hands had wrought upon this man the same cruelties he had once wrought on Will. Hannibal had facilitated the transformation, but Will had been the one to truly  _ become _ .

“Fuck me,” Will whispered, finally letting his eyes open, seeking Hannibal’s. “Here. Fuck me here, now, make this real.”

“It is real, sweet boy.”

“Please -” Will tugged Hannibal nearer and kissed him again, drowning in the taste of him, the smell of him mingling with the iron of the blood that seemed to be everywhere, on every surface, tacky and cold and so very, very dead.

He pushed against Hannibal’s chest until his knees hit the side of the table, Hannibal’s hand dropping to balance himself and skimming the flesh Will had cut away, cooling quickly on the metal. He groaned, cock systematically growing harder since the moment Will had taken up the crop, now aching in his pants as his boy pressed against him.

“I want you,” Will whispered, allowing Hannibal to step around the table and be guided back further by this vicious little thing. “I want you to have me like this, to  _ see _ -”

“I see you,” Hannibal murmured, cupping Will’s face as he kissed him back, just as ardent, just as earnest. “I see everything you are.”

_ More than a man _ .

Hannibal’s feet were surprisingly steady on the slippery floor, and when Will shoved at his shoulders he went to his knees, uncaring for how quickly blood seeped through the expensive fabric of his pants, for how they were now ruined entirely. He cared only for the boy who stood above him, hands bloodied to his wrists and beyond, flecks of it smeared over Will’s chest, growing yellow halos on the silk of his bloomers.

He reached for those first, tugging the hem just beneath Will’s balls and leaning in to take his cock deep, worshiping Will as he whimpered and dropped his head back, setting his feet wider for balance as Hannibal sucked him off.

Will hadn’t gotten hard from the torture. He hadn’t gotten hard until he saw Hannibal watching him, and then it was his body’s conditioned response that started the process. Now, he was aroused beyond words, the way Hannibal’s hands kneaded the muscles in his thighs, the way he moaned when Will’s cock slipped against the inside of his cheek, the way he let Will mess up his hair with his bloody, dirty hands as he knelt before him in a pool of blood.

Worshiping the idol of a young and cruel God.

Will refused to look at the corpse to the right of him, instead he turned his head to the left, watching the reflection of himself and Hannibal in the mirror. His golden limb gleamed in the relative dusk of the cellar, and Will had pushed up onto his toes with his other, elongating his body, stretching his muscles taut. He rocked very slightly into Hannibal’s mouth, one hand gripping his hair with bloody fingers, the other moving over himself, now, to touch his nipples, to spread his fingers against his throat and curl tight around it, the way Hannibal would choke him if he were standing up, not kneeling before him.

Will bit his lip and arched his back further, allowing his body to bow backwards in an elegant arc as he clung to Hannibal for balance. Something about the motion turned the doctor’s head and he met his own eyes in the mirror’s reflection before letting them devour the beauty of his boy instead.

He was radiant, as Hannibal had promised him he would be. He was regal. Hannibal pulled back and grasped Will’s ass with both hands, tugging him closer as he worshipped his stomach with kisses, nosed at his navel. Above him, Will mewled in pleasure, thighs trembling, cock thick and red as it bobbed up against Hannibal’s chin.

“Lie down,” he begged, turning to look at Hannibal properly. “Lie back, here, where we are.”

And Hannibal did. Eyes up at his boy as he slid his legs from beneath himself and out between Will’s instead, as he dropped his weight onto his arms behind him, then his elbows, then lay prone in the pool of blood, his clothes soaking up whatever hadn’t congealed into the floor.

Will stood over him like a conquering hero, eyes bright and wide and oh-so-innocent. He brought a hand to his mouth absently, chewing on the side of his thumbnail as he always did, leaving a smear of blood in its wake when he dropped his hands to his sides instead.

He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his bloomers and bent over slowly, slipping them down his thighs and over his knees, past his ankles. He stepped out of them and gently kicked them aside, the silk immediately blackening with blood where it landed. Will didn’t care. He had more. Hannibal had gifted him so many beautiful things, and none so beautiful as the freedom to take back power that had been stolen from him.

He knelt over Hannibal’s hips, metal grinding against the stone floor as he arched up and worked his belt open, the button next. Will freed Hannibal’s cock and whimpered, his own leaking from the thick swollen head as he breathed in the familiar scent of his lover.

They had no lubricant, and nothing on earth would move Will from where he sat to get some. Instead, he drew his fingers through the blood by his knee, eyes on Hannibal as he worked his fingers into himself, spreading himself wide and open with the blood of the man who had brought their paths together, however inadvertently.

Hannibal’s hands came to rest gently over Will’s thighs as he tensed and relaxed around the intrusion of his own fingers, as he prepared himself for Hannibal. He had not known, when he’d taken this beautiful creature from Hellfire, that he would bloom into something quite so stunning. He had expected that perhaps a clever thing like Will would be easy to mold, to train, to enjoy. That Hannibal could guide him on the path of self-discovery as he slowly devoured him. He had never anticipated that Will would become someone he could love so dearly, and need so entirely.

“I have never been able to predict you,” Hannibal whispered, as though he’d spoken his thoughts aloud, as though Will were privy to the monologues of his mind. His boy smiled, teeth white, almost feral with the way blood dirtied his face, and freed his hand, reaching with it to stroke Hannibal’s cock instead, smearing red over the length of him.

“Good,” he replied, pushing up on his knees to guide Hannibal against himself before sinking down with a moan far too obscene, far too loud. The darkness around them ate it up, ravenous for more desperate sounds and Will fed them to it, let the shadows glut on his pleasure as they had devoured his rage.

His hands pressed hard to Hannibal’s chest, holding him still as Will took his pleasure of him, this time, not the other way around. He rode Hannibal with a determination bordering on anger, fucked back against him brutally, sought the best angle to take Hannibal as deep as possible to feel him fill him up.

Against Hannibal he was a Valkyrie, bloodthirsty and wanton, bare on the battlefield, aching to plunder the souls still clinging to life within. He was a God. He was an avenging angel. Against Hannibal, now, Will was the most beautiful thing Hannibal had ever seen.

Will took his pleasure selfishly, paid little mind to what Hannibal felt as Will drove his cock against his prostate, dropped his own hand to stroke himself in time with the painful pace he’d set them both. He came with a cry, a sharp, short thing that the cellar silenced as soon as it left Will’s throat. Will shuddered, slicking his fingers and smearing the mess over Hannibal’s shirt before leaning over him to kiss Hannibal deep.

“Now,” he breathed, teeth showing in another savage smile. “Now, you can take me.”

Hannibal rarely held back with his boy. Will knew the extent of his monstrosity, he knew the man’s incomparable strength, knew his brutality, had tasted his own blood from Hannibal’s lips and moaned with it. Now, Hannibal flipped them, shoving a palm over Will’s mouth as his other hand curled around his throat and squeezed.

Will choked, eyes closing, cheeks darkening as Hannibal denied him air, as he took of Will, as Will had taken of him. He pounded his boy into the blood, into the stone, into the very bones of the building they shared together, watching Will’s cheeks darken with blood before releasing his throat but keeping his hand over Will’s mouth.

He relished the desperate suction against his skin, relished the whines and whimpers that Will emitted until his mind recalibrated and he drew in air through his nose instead. That surrender, that submission, from such a wild and brutal boy was enough to pull Hannibal’s orgasm from him in a surge. He filled Will up, hips helplessly thrusting into him in shallow, desperate shoves until he’d milked himself dry. Hannibal set both hands to the ground, on either side of Will’s head, and bent to kiss him, lazy and slow and worshipful. Will hummed and smiled, nuzzling at Hannibal’s cheek when he pulled away.

“Let me bathe you,” the doctor told him. “Let me clean your beautiful skin, ease the tension from your bones.”

“Yes,” Will licked his lips. “Please.”

“Then rest,” Hannibal continued, bringing his hand up to stroke cool knuckles down Will’s face, leaving tracks of blood behind. “Sleep. Recover. And when you wake, all this will be gone. Cleaned away.”

Will hummed again, turning almost sleepily into Hannibal’s touch as the doctor spoke. His back was freezing, sticky with blood against the stone. His chest rose and fell quickly as he caught his breath. He was hypnotized by Hannibal’s words, by his tone, by his gentle touches. He loved him so much in that moment he hadn’t the words to express it.

“And then?” Will asked softly.

“And then,” Hannibal slipped a curl behind Will’s ear. “I will make love to you in our bed, your legs spread wide for me as I tongue you open, as I make you come with a soft little cry for me before I even enter you.”

“And then?” Will’s breath hitched. Hannibal reached for his left hand, turning it in his own as though it were made of precious porcelain, and kissed his knuckles. Will bit his lip and whimpered, presenting his throat for Hannibal to kiss next as Will freed his hand and wound it in Hannibal’s hair, letting his fingers feel every strand against them.

“Yes,” he sighed. “That. Just like that.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will remembered breakfast at a time that wasn’t morning, dinner when the sun was rising, and sleep, a lot of sleep. Now, he considered the beautiful man atop him and reached for him, drawing him close enough to kiss. He curled his left hand into Hannibal’s hair and tugged it gently, before laying back and letting himself look at his doctor._
> 
> _“How long was I out?”_
> 
> _“Just a day,” Hannibal assured him, skimming his knuckles over Will’s cheek. “You deserved the rest.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one this week, guys, sorry about that. Some stuff going on and I wanted to have a bit of a buffer between the last chapter and the one coming up next. Hope you like it all the same! Enjoy all the body worship <3

Will woke to kisses against his throat, warm and worshipful, and felt his lips tilt in a smile. He stretched, groaning as his muscles tugged taut, as his spine clicked and aligned properly, as his legs spread to welcome Hannibal between them.

He had slept long after the killing, Hannibal had bathed him as he’d promised, had carried Will to bed and found him asleep not moments later. He took pity on his boy, didn’t wake him to claim him again, and instead had cleaned up the basement. He took what he felt was worth keeping from the revolting lump of flesh left cooling on his table and worked on disposing of the rest.

The meat would be an anonymous donation to a shelter nearby who had hungry mouths to feed. The bones Hannibal would clean and articulate into a skeleton for the medical school.

His boy had done an incredible job in his retribution; he had been thorough and brutal, cruel in his innocence, bright in his becoming. As Hannibal cleaned, he allowed himself to remember the way Will’s tone had dipped to something lower, coy and tempting, he thought of the way Will had stretched his shoulders, rolling them to allow Hannibal to see the muscle beneath, he remembered how glorious his boy had looked covered in blood as he’d mounted him, riding Hannibal hard and fast and needy.

He kept the bloodied bloomers, the fabric stiff with dried blood.

By the time he returned upstairs and bathed himself, Will had woken, and Hannibal had fulfilled his promise of making love to him until he wept, spreading Will’s legs and tonguing his hungry little hole until Will squirmed against him and came hard. Then they slept together.

Will remembered breakfast at a time that wasn’t morning, dinner when the sun was rising, and sleep, a lot of sleep. Now, he considered the beautiful man atop him and reached for him, drawing him close enough to kiss. He curled his left hand into Hannibal’s hair and tugged it gently, before laying back and letting himself look at his doctor.

“How long was I out?”

“Just a day,” Hannibal assured him, skimming his knuckles over Will’s cheek. “You deserved the rest.”

Will swallowed, but he smiled back. He was still exhausted, still sore and lazy. He hadn’t done his morning routine stretches for three days now, and his muscles screamed at him for it. The thought, for some reason, made him laugh, and he pressed the back of his hand against his lips to stifle it away. How curious that his body demanded he work it so viciously by aching when he didn’t.

He cast stormy eyes to Hannibal and dropped his hand over his head with a smile. “Would you like to watch me at the barre?” he asked.

Hannibal blinked at him, surprised, before slowly inclining his head. He’d seen his boy stretch his body, of course, but he’d never been invited to do so closely. They had time, he knew, for Will to farewell his limb before Hannibal claimed it. He bent to kiss Will’s cheek and then shifted to let him up.

He watched in awe, as he so often did, as Will fastened his leg to his thigh, deft and quick with the cords now. He watched as Will retrieved a pair of fancy bloomers from the drawer by the bed, watched as he ducked down to work his fingers over the ball of his foot for just a moment, toes flexing, before he set both feet to the ground and stood to lead the way.

Will was always beautiful, Hannibal knew that he would always be beautiful, but watching him slip into the quiet solitude of concentration as he reached the barre was a beauty of its own calibre. Will’s expression was one of absolute peace; lips parted gently, eyes at half mast. He started with first position and moved through them, moving both his legs as though they were his own, so accustomed, now, to what Hannibal had built for him.

Hannibal watched Will arch his back and neck, body curved backward in the most pleasing line. He watched Will set one foot to the barre and bend towards it, stretching muscles Hannibal couldn’t see working beneath the skin. Lowering that, Will did the same with the other, adjusting the cant of his hips to work the muscles he used in his left leg more, those that guided his prosthetic, that helped him balance.

He was remarkable.

And Will didn’t neglect his arm and hands, elegant, almost dainty in his movements. He moved his wrists before him like fish in water, like birds in flight. He shifted his arms in such a way as to make anyone believe he were entirely boneless.

By the time Will was finished, his chest was rising and falling rapidly to catch his breath, a thin sheen of sweat shining matte over his collarbones and stomach. Hannibal couldn’t resist coming up behind him to wrap his arms around Will and pull him back. His beautiful, dangerous, extraordinary boy, entirely bare for him, showing Hannibal what his exquisite body could do.

Hannibal kissed over his shoulder, against the side of Will’s throat. They both looked out the window they stood by, down onto the busy London street. People could look up, of course, and see Will as easily as he saw them, but they rarely did. He felt entirely alone before them, as though he were standing by a moving painting, not a real city. Will leaned back against Hannibal with a sigh and brought his hand up to scratch gently at Hannibal’s scalp.

“Where will you take it?” Will asked softly.

“Downstairs,” Hannibal replied, nuzzling against his boy and breathing him in. “But not yet.”

Will hummed, chancing a look askance, and found Hannibal’s lips against his own in answer, soft and reassuring, familiar and welcome. Will smiled into it, opened his mouth to Hannibal and made a sleepy sound of pleasure as Hannibal kissed him deep. He was always hungry for Will, as hungry as Will always was for him. Even months on from the day Hannibal had brought him here, they enjoyed each other to excess day after day.

Pulling away Will laughed, a low and pleased sound, and lifted a brow. “If not now, when?” He asked. Hannibal leaned in to nip his bottom lip.

“Get on the bed for me,” he said, letting Will free to walk towards the bed that was always made impeccably, and that he hadn’t slept in voluntarily now for months. Will sat on the edge until Hannibal lifted his chin and he took it as a cue to crawl deeper into it, a grin warming his features. He rested his weight back on his arms and crossed one leg over the other. Hannibal slowly shook his head, eyes devouring every inch of skin he could see.

“Spread your legs,” he said, and Will did, with a grin and a deliberately deep arch of his back. Hannibal let his breath catch in his throat as he looked, as he took a step nearer, as his tone lowered into a deep thrum of pleasure. “Wider.”

Will obeyed, thighs spreading wanton for Hannibal to look his fill, his cock hardening already beneath the froth of his lacey bloomers. Always so hungry, always so eager. Beautiful, sinful boy.

“Touch yourself for me,” Hannibal told him. “Work yourself up nice and hard so I can see.”

Will bit back a sound in his throat and grinned at Hannibal instead, folding his lower lip between his teeth in a way that was simply Bacchanalian; an apt God for his boy to embody, for him to be a conduit for. When he obeyed, it was with the hand he would soon give up, his left, working deft fingers over the curve of his cock, teasing with pressure rather than pull, until his thighs trembled and Will dropped back to lay on the bed more comfortably, drawing his knees higher and letting one drop to the bed to give him the best view.

“Hannibal,” his name fell like wine from the boy’s lips and Hannibal closed his eyes to savor the sound. When he opened them, Will was rocking his hips up into his hand, a deliberate, beautiful show for his doctor to enjoy. He rubbed and rutted, spread his fingers and teased just beneath the hem of his bloomers, allowing Hannibal a brief peek into the dark warmth beneath before covering himself again, as though shy.

Will was a siren reincarnated, an incubus. Had Hannibal not had his own plans for him when he’d first laid eyes on this waif at the Hellfire, he would have followed the boy into any manner of hell.

The irony was not lost on him.

When Will was breathless and trembling, thighs pink, toes spread against the bed and pushing to it as Will continued to masturbate for Hannibal’s pleasure, Hannibal stepped near enough to set his hands to his knees. He spread Will wider for him, enough that Will winced gently at the stretch, and bent to kiss just beneath his boy’s navel. Will brought his hand up to cup beneath Hannibal’s chin and smiled wide when Hannibal looked up at him.

“Don’t come,” he murmured, and Will groaned, biting his lip and squirming in displeasure. “Let me taste your desire in your blood. It runs sweet through everything you are.”

Will moaned then, wanton, cock twitching in their confines, against when Hannibal kissed the head of it through the lace and stood back up. He watched Will, his beautiful boy, his extraordinary, wild, feral thing, and titled his head at him. 

“Trust me.”

Will’s smile softened, eyes narrowing in pleasure. He held his hand out for Hannibal to take. “With my life.”

\---

The sedation took quickly, and Will kept his eyes on Hannibal the entire time the chloroform soaked cloth was pressed to his mouth and nose. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember pain or fear. 

He remembered waking up, once, feeling Hannibal’s lips against his temple, hearing him whisper something, before the chloroform was back and Will saw nothing at all.

And then he woke to kisses at his throat, and smiled. His limbs were heavy but nothing hurt, it was as though he were floating in a lake, or in dense smoke. With a groan he tilted his head to the side and sighed when Hannibal kissed him.

“Remarkable boy,” he praised, stroking Will’s cheek. “Beautiful thing. Rest a while.”

“Let me see.”

Will felt Hannibal moving over him, heard the susurrus of sheets as they were pulled away. He felt his arm being lifted, felt Hannibal’s palm press to his cheek to guide him to turn his head.

His left arm ended in carefully bandaged gauze just below where his wrist should have been. Will blinked at it once, twice, and then his eyes rolled back and he fainted.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We had a bargain.”_
> 
> _“Consider me a coward.”_
> 
> _“No.” Hannibal stepped closer, setting a palm against Will’s cheek, stroking his thumb beneath his eye as he made Will look up at him. “You will do this with me, because you promised. And you are a man of your word, as I am of mine.”_
> 
> Will balks at preparing his own hand for dinner. There is inappropriate use of food here, as always, but no actual cannibalism. And very minor mentions of dissection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief hiatus! I had surgery done last week and was a bit off my head for a few days. Hope this chapter makes up for it!

“Will.”

“I can’t.”

“You will.”

The boy swallowed thickly, eyes flicking to the hand on the cutting board,  _ his _ hand, before returning to Hannibal again.

“I don’t know how to - it’s  _ mine _ , Hannibal, that’s obscene.”

“We had a bargain.”

“Consider me a coward.”

“No.” Hannibal stepped closer, setting a palm against Will’s cheek, stroking his thumb beneath his eye as he made Will look up at him. “You will do this with me, because you promised. And you are a man of your word, as I am of mine.”

Will’s expression faltered for a moment, weak and little, before hardening to stone again. Hannibal could sense the words behind his lips, the rebuttal, the demand to be left alone since he was a man who knew himself and could do as he pleased. He could sense it, but Will said nothing, just kept his eyes on Hannibal’s, unblinking.

The doctor hummed. “Very well. There are punishments for breaking promises.”

He let Will go and the boy huffed, displeased, turning his head away from the counter and the doctor who stood near it. His left arm was in a sling over his right shoulder, but otherwise the boy was bare. It was warm in the house and clothes were a hassle when neither were leaving it. The staff had been given days of leave during Will’s revenge and the aftermath, for obvious reasons, and had they been here, Will no longer felt any shame in being naked before them.

He supposed it was only fair that Hannibal was pushing him to fulfil his promise, he had done everything to help Will get his revenge, to come through it stronger. But something about seeing his own limb, still hand-shaped, not unmade into chunks of unassuming meat, had Will fighting the urge to retch. Surely he could understand that? The man had his own limbs, still,  _ he’d _ never had to eat himself before.

Or prepare himself to be eaten later; Will was keeping the eating very distant from the current moment, he was certain his reaction to that would be much more violent than this.

Will expected Hannibal to bind him, to drag him to the basement and force him to spank himself with that dreadful machine; he’d only been rude to a few young women to have earned that, being rude to Hannibal would certainly warrant a harsher punishment. Yet the doctor didn’t even leave the kitchen to get what he needed before returning to stand before Will, catching his chin to lift it.

“I will not associate this with pain, sweet boy,” Hannibal told him, “because this should not be painful for you. I will, however, make it very uncomfortable for you today unless you do as I say.”

“You do so often get off on minor sadism,” Will muttered, offering a cold smile. Hannibal’s was much warmer in return.

“Stubborn boy, you will do as I say.” He leaned in to kiss Will’s forehead, drawing his thumb over his sharp chin. “You’re the one who sealed this with blood, Will, now honor it. Stand still.”

Will was hardly in a place to fight him, so he didn’t move. He watched, instead, as Hannibal pulled a small glass vial from his pocket and removed the lid. For a moment, the room smelled like winter, sharp and bright, and then Hannibal placed his fingertip over the top of it and turned the bottle upside down.

“Bodies are extraordinary things, Will,” Hannibal was saying, as he drew his wet fingertip over one nipple, then the other, before turning the bottle once more to wet his finger afresh. “So resilient and adaptable, yet so fragile.” this time, he rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, coating them both before taking Will’s cock in his clean palm. He massaged whatever was on his fingers over the foreskin of Will’s cock, before gently drawing that down to reveal the dark pink slit. A moment of consideration before he firmly rubbed his thumb against it.

“Give me your hand,” Hannibal told him next, and Will hesitantly held his palm out for him. A drop of the oil to each fingertip and the center of his palm and Hannibal smiled before stepping away from the boy. Will frowned. He felt like he’d just been annointed in some perversion of a Catholic ritual, and the kitchen smelled like Christmas, and he wasn’t sure what was even going on.

And then he felt it.

The slow crawl of a freezing thrill, like being licked with an ice-tongue rather than the burning one Hannibal usually tormented Will with. His nipples, the tip of his cock tingled and burned, just a little, just enough for Will to squirm with the sensation and reach to try and ease it.

“Ah,” Hannibal clicked his tongue gently, amusement playing on his face as he worked free his cuffs and folded his sleeves. “You will only make it worse, the more of the oil you rub onto yourself. I would reconsider.”

Will cursed, glaring up at him as he held his palm aloft, fingers splayed. He considered the sink, and earned another click of the tongue in warning. “Do not, unless you’d like another ginger root pushed into you as well.”

Will swallowed. No, that he did  _ not _ want. He fumed silently for a moment before directing a wary look at the doctor who merely smiled back. “Oil lingers, dear boy, and will do so for many, many hours. There are ways to ease you quicker, and I will, once you’ve fulfilled your promise to me. We will prepare the meat, cook it together, and I will have mercy on you for dinner.”

“How generous,” Will mumbled. Hannibal just smiled wider.

“The faster you cooperate the quicker you find relief, Will. It is up to you.”

With a narrowing of his eyes, Will turned on his heel to leave the kitchen to Hannibal, moving to perch on one of the stools by the opposite counter instead. The doctor hummed, seemingly not at all surprised, before taking up a knife and moving the cutting board and Will’s hand to that counter instead.

“Before we begin, it is important to understand the type of meat you’re working with,” he began, speaking as though to a lecture room of students, not to the boy whose hand he was now systematically and deftly flaying. Will closed his eyes with a wince as one finger after another was degloved before him. There was, surprisingly, very little blood. Hannibal explained that he had drained the limb before working with it, though  _ clots may be found once we start removing flesh from the bone _ .

Will wondered why he was still sitting there, why he hadn’t stormed to the bathroom and submerged himself in hot soapy water to get rid of the persistent  _ burn _ that was starting to truly irritate him now. His nipples were easier to ignore, but his cock…

He squirmed in his seat and held Hannibal’s eyes with a glare when he looked askance.

“Would you like to help, Will?”

“No, I’d prefer not.”

“Suit yourself,” Hannibal’s pleasure was evident in his tone as much as in the way he moved. As though he were performing, as though he were  _ preening _ for someone. In any other situation, with anyone  _ else’s _ limb, Will would have been enthralled with the conversation, the demonstration, but he felt oddly… bereft. Not of a limb but of a sympathetic response. It was as though once immediately removed from Will, his hand was no longer worth the worship and respect Hannibal had once given it.

With a soft groan, Will shifted in his seat and dropped a hand between his legs, forgetting. When Hannibal looked up, Will groaned louder and slapped his palm to the counter. Hannibal had been right - more oil made it worse, and having rubbed his skin trying to remove the irritation Will had worked the oil deeper. He felt constantly on the edge of wanting to urinate, but his bladder was empty.

It was infuriating.

Will still found himself sitting forward when Hannibal turned the hand on the board for Will to see the carpal bones, curse him.

“Bone broth is one of the most filling and nutritious meals a man your age could eat, Will,” Hannibal was lecturing now, turning away for just a moment to set a pot to the stove having filled it with water.

“Is it good for regrowth?” Will asked dryly, feeling his lips twist in a smile as Hannibal blinked at him, thrown for a moment.

“It is believed to help with muscle regeneration, yes,”

“How curious.”

Will bit his lip and closed his eyes, thighs pressed together as he continued to squirm in his seat. The freezing burn was all over his cock now, and he was getting  _ hard _ from it, which was at once the most confusing and irritating thing. His chest felt on fire as well; where it had initially been easy to ignore his nipples, they now were so sensitive that any shift in the air was enough to trickle goosebumps down Will’s spine.

Hannibal had been right; he wouldn’t be associating dissecting his own limbs with pain. He would be associating it with confused arousal.

“Hannibal,”

“Will.”

Will swallowed, looking over his shoulder at the pot. “I could cut the vegetables for you?”

“You’re welcome to dissect the hand for me,” Hannibal countered. “A knife between the fingers, cutting all the way to the wrist. It will ensure the meat is properly cooked and the bone boils.”

Will swallowed down a whine and a feeling of distaste. His entire body ached. He didn’t think he could hold out much longer, especially if Hannibal would make him remain so through dinner. He tapped his fingers against the counter arrhythmically and chewed his lip. He watched Hannibal take up a knife and start to slice carrots; each piece perfect, ideal, identical to its previous. 

Hannibal cleared the board with a harsh scrape of metal to wood and Will jerked in his seat.

“Alright!” he said. “Alright, I’ll - I’ll cut it. Just please make this stop.”

With a smile, Hannibal flipped the knife he held and caught the flat of the blade against his palm, holding the handle out for Will to take. He did, with a frustrated sigh, and slipped from the stool he sat upon to come around behind the counter.

Hannibal stood near, just over Will’s shoulder, and set his fingers to the wrist of what was once Will’s left hand. Will swallowed.

“Just between the knuckles,” Hannibal guided him, voice soft, now, no longer smug. “Set the blade there and carefully slice down. Do not saw the meat, it will toughen it.”

Will nodded, a quick and nervous thing, and did as he was told. It wasn’t easy to cut; the muscle was thick, cartilage and bone getting in the way as Will didn’t know where precisely to set the blade. He made a sound, helpless, and Hannibal hushed him, turning his nose in Will’s curls as he patiently waited for Will to obey his instructions.

The first finger came away with a jagged edge, but Hannibal’s praise felt like a balm to Will’s whirling mind. He gently set a hand to Will’s shoulder and stepped away to retrieve something. When he returned, there was a soothing balm against Will’s chest, too. Sour cream, fresh from the clay pot it had been sold in at the market. Hannibal massaged it over one of Will’s nipples as he pressed against him once more, holding the meat down for Will to cut into it again.

And he did.

It got easier the further along he went; as much for the fact that he could predict where the bones were, as because first one nipple then the other was eased from the terrible stinging discomfort Hannibal had inflicted on him. Once the hand was cut from fingers to wrist, looking less and less like a human limb, Will leaned back against the doctor and licked his lips.

“What now?”

“Boiling,” Hannibal murmured, folding a curl behind Will’s ear. “Several hours with an onion, parsley root. Enough for the meat to come away from the bone.”

Will rubbed up against him, turning his head against Hannibal’s shoulder with a hum. “And then?”

“Vegetables,” Hannibal told him, easing his hand down between Will’s legs now, soothing him there as well as Will whimpered and groaned and rocked into his palm. “Herbs. Seasoning,” Hannibal took him in hand, stroking Will deliberately and slowly, working him thoroughly until he was slippery and covered, the burn soothed away.

Will brought his hand up and slipped it into Hannibal’s hair, dropping his head back for Hannibal to mouthe over his throat. “So we have time then?”

“For what, dear boy?”

Will grinned, pleased and lazy, rocking up into Hannibal’s tightened fist. “For another kind of devouring.”

Hannibal hummed, turning his wrist as he sped his hand up, closing his forefinger and thumb in a tight circle around the head of Will’s cock until he whined and pushed up on his toes.

“Will you eat like you’re supposed to?”

“Yes,” Will murmured, squirming where Hannibal held him, digging his nails into the back of his neck to bring him closer. He spread his fingers over the back of Hannibal’s head to guide him to bite down, to suck a bruise beneath his jaw. “I’ll be  _ ravenous _ by then.”

Hannibal hummed, stroking him again until he had Will breathless and trembling in his arms.

“And if you decide to disobey again?” Hannibal asked him softly. Behind them, the water had started to boil on the stove, and Will shivered.

“Then I’ll peel the ginger myself,” Will told him, turning in his hold until Hannibal let him go and set his hands to Will’s cheeks, smearing the sour cream there too. Will could laugh at the absurdity, and did. “I’ll be good.”

Hannibal watched him with hooded eyes, close enough to kiss but refraining for the moment. Then he smeared his thumb over Will’s lips, pushing them out of shape. “Put the meat into the pot, Will. Carefully. Then,” he turned his hand to skim knuckles over Will’s curls, following the motion with wine-red eyes. “Up on the counter, legs spread. For another kind of devouring.”

Will grinned, eyes narrowing with it, and moved to obey.

**Author's Note:**

> **Aptus**  
1\. Suitable, adapted  
2\. Ready  
3\. Apt, proper  
4\. Tied, attached (to)  
5\. dependent (on)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Kinktober 2019 - The Hannigram et al Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860232) by [whiskeyandspite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite)


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